I’m in the enviable position, thanks to my awesome husband, to be able to do what I love and call it work. I’m not sure I would really be any good at anything else. Though I do make a pretty ok secretary, so long as the office is small and cluttered and I’m left to do things my way.
Writing is something I’ve always just done. I was fourteen when I decided it was what I most wanted to do with my life. That year I wrote my first novel. It is horrible, it is fabulous, and it is sitting on my bookshelf in two spiral bound notebooks no one will ever be allowed to read. I learned a lot from that book and the three or four that I finished before the end of high school. None of them were very good but each was better than the last. I have worked to figure out what works for me and what doesn’t and, while it’s taken a long time to really start getting anywhere, I am getting somewhere.
The problem I run into sometimes is that it doesn’t feel like work. Even the editing process runs fairly smoothly. I aim to be a reasonable author who listens to her editors. To me, there is no drudge work in writing. I love the research, the writing, the rewriting, the editing. I love it all. I’d be telling stories regardless of whether or not I write them down. How can that possibly be work? Wait, I don’t like writing synopses or outlines or working on the series bibles. That could all be called work.
Sometimes I feel a little bit guilty, especially when the husband has a rough day at his job when I’ve been working on a story but that just makes me try to push a little harder to tell the best stories I can and to get my stories into the hands of readers.