Friday, March 30, 2012


Monday through Thursday, I write like a fiend. I zombie-ize and fall into my laptop with a single purpose. All else in my life takes a number and waits for me to finish getting my thoughts into a digitized format. Flowers bloom and die and I don't notice. My house begins to crawl with clutter. I'm not alone, I'm sure.

Just recently, I made the decision to write full-time. My husband encouraged me to take the time to do it; he wanted me to get it out of my system. I'm sure he thought I'd get discouraged, give up, and then go back to being the good wife and mother that he wanted to marry.

Yesterday my darling husband asked, "So, exactly how many books are you selling?" Hmm. Have to think about this. Should I be honest and tell him that sales are dismal because the market is glutted with thousands of aspiring self-publishers? Or, do I lie and make him feel that I've found my niche and give him a reassuring kiss as a distraction? Either way, I'm screwed. If I'm honest, he'll tell me to get a real job. If I lie, I'll tell myself to get a real job.

I'm curious how many hours a week most writers put into their craft. Ten? Twenty? Eighty? Are we all obsessed with becoming the next James Patterson or Danielle Steel? I know I am. Again, we swing back to honesty.

Back to paragraph one. What am I missing in life while I pursue my dream of becoming the next big thing? In a word: Everything.

I'm missing seeing my adult children moving on with their lives. I'm missing the man that I love. I'm missing coffee dates and interacting with real people. I need to stop missing everything. My manuscript will be there tomorrow, waiting patiently, but the people in my life won't.

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