This weekend, I spent Saturday doing normal things. I slept in, I read a bit, I went to the grocery store, I cleaned my house. I had a friend over and we watched Fuller House and laughed until we cried. It was a lovely day, and I barely even thought about writing.

Barely.

In the midst of all of that, I did get to thinking about what life would have been like if this writing bug hadn’t bitten. If I had never decided to write a book, or try to get published, that would be a fairly typical weekend day for me. Being lazy, and then being productive. A good mix. Being social, taking time to take care of myself.

If I wasn’t a writer, my house would be cleaner. Maybe even unpacked from my move seven months ago. Maybe I would have pictures up on the walls, and my Christmas decorations would have been back in storage January 1 instead of February 27.

If I wasn’t a writer, my Fitbit would probably give me more stars for sleeping. I would get more than 5-6 hours of sleep a night. I would feel rested at work.

If I wasn’t a writer, I could take more time to focus on fitness and getting in shape. I wouldn’t feel guilty for taking an hour to walk or do yoga or hula hoop.

If I wasn’t a writer, I could binge-watch shows guilt-free. My computer wouldn’t glare at me, reminding me of the book I have due in a month. I could say yes to all social engagements, or say no, but just to stay home in my pajamas.

If I wasn’t a writer, I could turn off my brain after 8-10 hours of working an emotionally taxing day job. I wouldn’t have to psych myself up to try to produce or fix thousands of words when I get home. Maybe I would cook more. Cook healthier.

If I wasn’t a writer, I would have stories and characters just bouncing around inside my head with no place to go. Alternatively, my head might be a very quiet and boring place.

If I wasn’t a writer, I wouldn’t have met some pretty amazing people. I would be less aware of the world, still bumbling around in my own little bubble.

If I wasn’t a writer, I would be forced to live one life and one life only. I would never be a spy or a southern belle or a serial killer (that last one is probably okay).

If I wasn’t a writer, life would be less colorful, a lot more boring.

If I wasn’t a writer, I wouldn’t have learned the satisfaction that comes from succeeding at something after failing many times over. I wouldn’t have learned to push myself to continue when things didn’t come easy. I wouldn’t have gained the confidence needed to put myself out there, knowing I did the best I could. 

If I wasn’t a writer, I would probably still shy away from the tougher things in life.

If I wasn’t a writer, things might be easier. I wouldn’t have to work so hard, I wouldn’t have that constant simmering guilt whenever I’m not writing, and my stress level would probably be a lot lower.

But.

Even if I can talk about it in theory, I honestly can’t imagine a life where I’m not a writer. I always have been, and I always will be. And I wouldn’t change a thing.