I have written seven books, and still I have to remind myself that this is what I do, this is my vocation, this is what puts food on the table and pays the mortgage. It's not a hobby, or something I spend my days doing for the sheer joy of it. It's not-as some people like to think, as if writers are home crafting cute animals out of Play-Doh-so much fun! If I had a regular job (or what my writer friends and I have long referred to as job-jobs), I'd have a boss. Maybe multiple bosses. There would be meetings, conference calls, expectations, a day shaped for me, rather than by me.
We writers shape our own days. We sit at our desks in our pajamas. We putter around empty houses, watering plants, making stews in the slow cooker, staring out the window, and we call it "working." We close our doors when our husbands or wives or kids are downstairs watching TV. Shhh! I'm working! And at the same time, often we don't have anything to show for it. We have no guarantee that what we're doing will amount to anything resembling art.
Every day, when I wake up, when my bare feet hit the cold wood of my bedroom floor and I begin the process--scrambling the eggs, pouring the juice, packing the sandwiches, locating sneakers, yelling "bye, drive carefully" as my husband and son head off-I try to remember that to sit down and write is a gift. That if I do not seize this day, it will be lost. I think of writers I admire who are no longer living. I'm aware that the simple fact of being here creates a kind of responsibility, even a moral one, to get to work.
