Stephen King says in his book On Writing of the days when he was a high school English teacher and trying to write on the side, that by Friday afternoon he’d felt as if he’d spent the week with jumper cables clamped to his brain. “If I ever came close to despairing about my future as a writer, it was then. I could see myself thirty years on…with six or seven unfinished manuscripts (in my desk drawer) which I would take out and tinker with from time to time, usually when drunk. If asked what I did in my spare time, I’d tell people I was writing a book – what else does any self respecting creative writing teacher do with his or her spare time? And of course I’d lie to myself, telling myself there was still time, it wasn’t too late, there were novelists who didn’t get started until they were fifty, hell even sixty.”
This is how I feel today.