Does anything else matter? Does this matter?

Last week marks the one year anniversary of the current work in progress. I had high expectations for the book, and I suppose I've made some pretty good progress, but I'm much less far along than I intended, even when I wasn't pipe-dreaming. I've been doing a lot of thinking, about life, about writing, about what's important and what's not. I feel like I've become complacent in my station. I hate my job, but I have an easy paycheck. I hate chicago, but I have property and social ties. And I know, this is the worst part, I know that I'll just sit here in the crappy job and write one night a week and keep telling myself I'll get out eventually, but I won't. So. Thanks for listening.