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The glamorous life of a writer
May. 7th, 2008 08:18 amSadly, it's not all about TV interviews, booksignings in exotic locales, or sitting at the bar with literary friends trading bon mots as we sip our scotches. It's also days when my only writing accomplishment is coming up with a fresh twist on my bio for a con committee.
There's always a disconnect between how things look from the outside, and how they look from the inside. I started thinking about this over the weekend, when I received a note from one of my college friends, who called me an inspiration. The phrase made me blink for a moment. I don't feel like an inspiration, and surely Julie knows me well enough to know better. She lived with me for four years, and knows all of my bad habits. She witnessed the first sentient sock collection, as hours spent at the computer lab meant my laundry pile transformed from "needs washing" to "evolving lifeform." Strangers may see only the author, but surely a decades-old friend sees something different, right?
Or maybe not. After all, I've been published for ten years now, and have my twelfth novel coming out this summer. I haven't hit the bestseller lists, but I've managed a steady career. The doubts, insecurities and setbacks aren't on view to the casual observer--like the infamous sock pile, it's only those who are living the journey with me who see the rough spots.
Some days I take stock and think to myself "Wow, this is a great life, and it's good to be me." Other days my thoughts run along the lines of "Who knew happily ever after would be so hard?"
With a new book about to be released, I'm hoping for more of those "Good to be me" days. In the meantime, I'm glad I have writer friends with sock piles of their own to share the journey.
There's always a disconnect between how things look from the outside, and how they look from the inside. I started thinking about this over the weekend, when I received a note from one of my college friends, who called me an inspiration. The phrase made me blink for a moment. I don't feel like an inspiration, and surely Julie knows me well enough to know better. She lived with me for four years, and knows all of my bad habits. She witnessed the first sentient sock collection, as hours spent at the computer lab meant my laundry pile transformed from "needs washing" to "evolving lifeform." Strangers may see only the author, but surely a decades-old friend sees something different, right?
Or maybe not. After all, I've been published for ten years now, and have my twelfth novel coming out this summer. I haven't hit the bestseller lists, but I've managed a steady career. The doubts, insecurities and setbacks aren't on view to the casual observer--like the infamous sock pile, it's only those who are living the journey with me who see the rough spots.
Some days I take stock and think to myself "Wow, this is a great life, and it's good to be me." Other days my thoughts run along the lines of "Who knew happily ever after would be so hard?"
With a new book about to be released, I'm hoping for more of those "Good to be me" days. In the meantime, I'm glad I have writer friends with sock piles of their own to share the journey.