My real life is boring. Honestly. My day is filled with many of the same activities anyone else’s life entails: Cleaning out litter boxes, doing laundry, cooking dinner, and providing taxi service to my daughter. I see you yawning, so I’ll stop there.
Authors—okay I can’t speak for all authors, just me—are not glamorous. In fact, because my writing is done primarily at home, my lifestyle revolves around cotton pajamas, an ultra-comfortable but horrendously ugly housecoat, and a sublime pair of slippers. Occasionally, I rise to jeans and a t-shirt. And make-up? Hah! Who is going to see me besides the dog and my computer screen?
That’s why I write. Because I can imagine all sorts of lives way more interesting than my own.
In my writing life, the heroes always take out the trash and never wail because supper isn’t ready. The heroines never leave their bank card at home when they go to the grocery store and never realize just as they’re getting on the highway that they forgot to put gas in the car. The heroes never leave their wet towels on the bathroom floor and they love to cook—every night if necessary. The heroines slay villains left, right, and center, and still manage to keep the house clean and smelling like vanilla.
Truth is, I love my life, unglamorous as it may be. Being a writer is the second best job in the whole world (for me, being a mom comes first). Each and every day, I visit strange and wonderful places, meet interesting people, beat down bad guys, and reward my hero and heroine with their ultimate desire. It doesn’t get much better than that, right?
Okay, blog readers, time to fess up.
How many of you have gotten so wrapped up in a book (whether writing or reading) that you forgot to do something important? I once go so lost in my writing I forgot to go watch my sister’s kids while she and her husband went to an appointment—one of them ended up staying home. I apologized profusely for a week. Thankfully, they know what I’m like and they forgave me. Anyone else?