When I first started writing back in the early 90’s (ouch that sounds so looooong ago), I was totally fascinated by the process, of seeing my ideas unfold on the page, of breathing life into inanimate folks. Over time, when contracts and deadlines continued to loom in front of me, that spontaneity and zest for the written word at times gets sucked out of me.
I never want to be a writer that simply grinds words out on the page. I want to have the time to write the book of my heart, not just the book that will pay the bills. So often I find myself at a crossroad between art and survival. And that’s when it stops being fun.
What to do? When moments like that hit me, I think about all the wonderful readers that I have met in person, through snail and email and how much joy the words that I’ve poured onto the page have given them. And ya know what–it ain’t so bad afterall.