I love being a writer. At least, most of the time. But occasionally there are days like today, when the words won’t come and everything I do manage to get on the page sounds like it was produced by an illiterate nine-year-old. Today my love for writing seems very far away. I begin to dream of other occupations. More rewarding ones. I become convinced that there has to be an easier way to make a living. So that train of thought takes over and distracts me from the cursor blinking so accusingly on the nearly blank page. Mentally I run through a list of possible job prospects. Maybe I can be a grocery store clerk. Nothing to think about except ringing up bananas and milk. Then I consider the fact that they’re on their feet all day. I’m stretched out on my chaise lounge with my laptop on my lap and a Diet Coke within reach. Cross grocery store clerk off my list. It might be interesting to run a dress shop, I muse, trying to avoid looking at that cursor. Is it possible for it to look smug? I could work with pretty clothes all day, and those employee…