Writing in the Fast Lane

Experts say that writing is a full-time job. And marketing one's manuscripts is a full-time job. And keeping a house is a full-time job. And taking care of one's health is a full time job. Now all I need is a ninety-six hour day.
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For me, writing a story is like sculpting a statue. The story already exists out there in the ether somewhere, and my job is to chip away everything that isn't. Think of it as a tabula prescripta,* a pre-written slate, rather than a tabula rasa, a blank slate.
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I am lying on a chaise lounge on our balcony now, soothed by the sound of the water trickling across the rocks into the little pond in our back yard, my laptop at hand. I am my own idealized picture of an author. Well, sort of--actually, I'm lying with my upper body twisted sideways and my laptop balanced precariously on my hip, securing my copious notes. Oops, not quite: two pages fly off across the yard. I close my laptop and dash downstairs to retrieve them, but too late. So much for the image. I'd better stay downstairs and loll on the couch from now on.
*****
I am compulsively communicative. I write essays, short stories, poems, and novels. And my e-mails are a diary of my life. My friends are very tolerant.
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I used to teach creative writing, but I always told my students that it should be called "rewriting" rather" than "writing" because the craft is in the editing. And editing. And editing.

*Forgive me, Miss Osborn, if I've muddled up the Latin. I
can't find my Cassell's and I've been all over the internet
trying to find the correct form.