I want to write my book. The hours upon hours upon hours of monotonously pacing down rows of peppers and picking them into plastic boxes creates a mental void where my mind fits in and submerges me in paint which is mostly like oil stains or overflowing lava. Anger, a lot of it.
And my book comes alive. My characters and their stories hit turning points and develop and keep getting deeper , more exciting and more intricate.
Now I "just" need to write it all down. Hmph.