It was eight years ago when I took my husband up on his suggestion that he now, no doubt, regrets.
He
said, “When you’re not working, you have your nose stuck in a book. Why
don’t you write one yourself?”
I
thought, “Sure. Why not? I’ll give it a try.”
Every moment I wasn’t engaged with my family (which was anytime I wasn’t personally involved in whatever was happening), they would find me in one of my two son’s bedrooms. I didn’t have a computer of my own, but we made sure the spawn each had one.
Flash drives are this writer’s best friend , next to gin and tonic. If seclusion were an
option for me, I’d add that, too. However, I’ve found the dispensing of the
Evil Eye, along with a pissed-off hiss , often did the trick when disturbed in the midst
of creative genius.
I don’t
know how my husband and two boys put up with me.
Five
years later, I’m still cranking out stories, taking the Hub's suggestion to
heart. I finally earned my own laptop and moved my writing location to where it’s
centralized and I can keep an eye on things.
“I said, 'write one book', not an entire series… or three.” ß Oh come on, babe!
Where’s the fun in that?
If you’re
gonna do it, go big! Right?
An
office of my own would be ideal.
But I’ll have to write a few more books before that happens.
But I’ll have to write a few more books before that happens.