I have to agree with Annie Dillard who said, ‘It is almost prurient, this daydreaming about the writing life, as if there was such a thing, or as if, if there were, you could call it living’. Hmm… with 18 years of writing behind me and I hope many more stories, poems and non-fiction pieces to venture forth from my subconscious in the future, I can attest that there is no such thing as a writer’s life. They say that aspiring writers, fans of writer’s and some actual do it for a living writers believe that there is a secret formula ‘out there’ and if one could find it and perhaps adopt it-presto! What great writer’s we could all become. The irony of course is that writing is probably the one profession where there is no set approach. Many writers have full time jobs and commitments. Writing has to be squeezed in, allotted into our lifestyles, usually with great difficulty. The writer’s life, that magic word that for me conjures up Hemingway drinking gin martini’s in Spain inbetween bull fights, siesta time and lovers, can quite mundanely be described in one word: Writing. Find your own quiet space, book in time and ask your family to take pity while you embark on the exhilarating, nerve racking, blank minded agony of creating a narrative tale you are desperate to share with the world and write. It is perhaps the most mentally exhausting profession you can become attached too and one that many of us feel compelled to do.