There’s this rumor going around that I’m a writer. An author, to be more specific. It must be true—I just completed the paperwork for my kid to move up to Boy Scouts from Cub Scouts, and in the “parent occupation” field I wrote “author.” Felt pretty good, I have to admit. I have three books published and another on the way in July, so I can finally call myself an author without feeling like an impostor.
And yet…(you just knew there was going to be an “and yet”, didn’t you?) there’s one small problem. I guess, if you had to pin a word on it, it’d be “life.” I haven’t worked on a new book—heck, haven’t written one word—since I wrapped up the copy edits on my last MS. That wasn’t so long ago, but it feels like it. When I’m not writing, I just feel guilty, because I should be.
And yet…(there it is again!) life has indeed gotten in the way. A bit. Just a bit. Oh, nothing huge, aside from my mom’s fall (she’s doing much better now). Simply “stuff” that happens. Read the rest of this entry