How Time FliesWhen I was Twelve Years Old, I wrote one of my favorite authors and told her I would be a writer one day. She sent me a postcard, wishing me luck and I framed it and kept it over my bed. Some years later, when my house was hit by a fire, that memento was one of the things I mourned. Today I had the opportunity to write that author again and tell her how far I've come. It was a turning point in my career, and as I sat here with tears in my eyes I couldn't help but feel cemented in my choice.
This isn't an easy business to get into. I have individuals telling me all the time that they could do it, that it's easy and effortless. Most of the time I just sit and nod, listening to them talk about things they don't know. But the truth is, being a writer is like being any other kind of artist. There's heavy competition, blows to your ego, and vortexes of need that devour your time. It's exhausting, elating, and completely worth it IF you love it as much as you need to.
Ultimately, I'm happy. I'm happy with the hundred dollars I just dropped on a membership to the RWA (heck yeah!). I'm happy with the house load of chores I haven't completed because I was editing all of last night. I'm happy with the five thousand words I just had to delete because they didn't fit with the flow of some secondary character in the back of my head. I'm HAPPY. But not everyone could be.