…the other life intrudes into this.
It does, sometimes. (And I mean the life that the me who isn’t Shay Lassa lives, not ghosts or something.) Happens to all of us, doesn’t it? We want to write. We breathe in stories. Then something happens, and all the stories are crowded out by other thoughts, and we need to spend hours just clearing out our heads to get them back.
All I think is that I never wanted this. I only ever want to write. Everything else should be secondary, and it isn’t, because stories don’t earn me a living. It upsets me, and today, I am more upset than usual.
I keep thinking that I honestly have no idea what I’m doing. I wonder if I could walk away from the other life, or at least cut it down to a minimum, and just pour all of myself into being Shay Kassa and writing erotica. I think that might make me happier than I am now.
That’s the weird knowledge of it. I could walk away from this name any time I wanted to. I can’t walk away from the other name. But this identity, the one I created for myself, is the one I want more, no matter how much of it might not be real.
I can’t decide if this makes me crazy or just a writer.