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Grab a cup of Java, sit back and let me complain a bit about the many hazards I face doing what I love to do! I'm a writer.

I'm having one of those days again. Down and out and plain ole blah. Ever had one of those days? When motivation is only a word in the dictionary?

So I've stumbled upon this article entitled; Light-hearted looks at the occupational hazards of being a writer. Now that's a mouthful, indeed. So much so, that I've decided to scribble a few things down. Therapeutically, of course.

Forgive me if, by chance, I don't sound quite the light-hearted nymph that I'm trying to portray. In my humble opinion, (that can change without notice) I find nothing light-hearted in the many hazards this writer is facing today. However, if by chance, a non-writer (happy person) happens upon this warped vision of mine, I hope it brings a smile that refuses to let go.

The latest occupational hazard, and one that has created a minor crisis. The buttons are popping off my keypad one by one. Very meticulous and unnoticed by me up till now. These tiny letter caps are going AWOL in military fashion. My unfortunate brain tells me it's time for a new laptop. The paranoid brain side says it's a set up. I'm convinced it's the latter.

Likely suspects; *My son Andrew, who insists I spend too much time at the keypad, and that I should 'share'. Humph.
*My fiance Dave who 'knows' I spend too much time at the keypad and is probably willing to do just about anything to get a hot,home-cooked meal including the sabotage of my writing source.

Keeping in mind that I'm in a paranoid state, I sense a conspiracy of monumental proportions and am planning a reciprocal attack. Not against my laptop, mind you, its been nothing but a friend to me throughout this mess of espionage and conspiratorial outrage. No, my focus centers around my fiance and son.

And as I write, struggling for the lighthearted aura that should come with this tangent, I've become increasingly aware of an unusual hostility towards my coffee pot. This makes me a little uneasy.

As writers we have all experienced irritability towards the ones we love. Not because they are 'bad' or wrong, but just because they 'are'. Now that makes me giggle. The depressing thing about it all is the simple fact that it is a fact.

Despite my morning starting off as a day to be reckoned with, I will continue to write because I have no choice. My laptop has been replaced with an old manual type-writer. There is a table with a single match and glass of Dom Perignon that she sat directly in front of the window. It beckons me, after all, I do owe her. She saved my life. I'll just wheel myself over and perhaps get some sunlight today and forget the misery. Besides, tomorrow is another day.

Learn more about this author, Crystal Molott-French.
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