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.” 

The initial draft of my first book was completed three years later. And the reason it took
so long is because I had no idea what the hell I was doing. Thank God for online writing groups and low-cost classes.

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.

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