I am a Writer

My Master expects a lot of me. He takes me seriously as a writer and expects me to do the same for myself. He pursued me for my writing, he trapped me for my writing, he trains me and keeps me and puts up with a whole lot of shit because of -

well, ok, not just because of my writing,
there is all that other stuff,
the insistent nipples,
the pale round belly,
the bottom begging to be bruised,
the hot tight pussy,
the still virgin ass hole,
you know,
you've heard about them all before.

But truly, this writer thing...

I hold my head higher now.

He expects a lot.
He is peeved if he thinks I'm goofing off.
He wants focus.
He wants quality.
And he wants me to respect my talent.

There is a friend who pushes me as well, and between the two of them, I feel as if there has been a shift in my brain.

Even though I have a "regular" job that forces me to get up in the morning and barely manages to pay the bills, I am suddenly feeling as if this is my profession. For its own protection, I moved my laptop back onto the desk in my study. The room is horribly cluttered, but still, it is my study, it is my office, and now it is the place where I write.

I sit down at my laptop, knowing I'm going to write rather than read other people's blogs or fume over the California Supreme Court decision on Proposition 8 or flirt with my Master on Yahoo Messenger (a brand new delight now that my laptop has been upgraded). I sit down at my laptop, at my desk, and it's as if I've put on my writing suit, and a little name tag that says

oatmeal girl
writer

and I sit up even straighter and pull back my shoulders to show off my tits, and I write.

And then I feel SO GOOD!!

Not to mention pleasing my Master, which is the most important thing of all.

My Master expects a lot of me.
And when I know he's pleased,
my world is filled with sunshine.

My Master is my sun.
My Master fills my life.