I’m not sure when I first allowed myself to refer to myself as a “writer”, despite my agent,
, smiling at me via Marco Polo and calling me it repeatedly after a contract signing or a manuscript completion. It always feels like a side-line, wannabe hustle, doesn’t it? Something people aspire to, unless you're J.K. Rowling or James Clear and can retire your whole family on your royalties and enjoy lazy days at the lake house writing your next bestseller. (For legal reasons, the “lake house” is completely fictional, and I have no idea how much Rowling or Clear make from their books. Thank you.)I read in Ann Patchett’s collection of essays “This is the Story of a Happy Marriage” over the weekend, a comforting few lines:
“My short stories and novels have always filled my life with meaning, but, at least in the first decade of my career, they were not more capable of supporting me than my dog was. But part of what I love about both novels and dogs is that they are so beautifully oblivious to economic concerns. We serve them, and in return, they thrive. It isn’t their responsibility to figure out where the rent is coming from.”
The thing is I have, am, and will make money from writing books. Thanks to you all, "Modern Miss Mason," has sold thousands of copies. But you can’t treat it like other jobs. If you start counting the hours of writing, research, editing, mental space taken up, coffee drinking, desperate need for a cleaner, funds... well, don’t, just don't go there! I may not be at Rowling's status yet, and yes, my income will require a couple of supporting roles for a while, but everyone has a bestseller in them, right?
So, back to why I came over here. It’s go-time for my second book in the series of living books I’m writing for middle-grade children, with Moody Publishers. My deadline is May 1st, and I’m currently head down, actually fully submerged in the story and characters of this book. I’ve cleared the April diary of all but keeping my family fed, clothed, and educated (don’t worry, I smile at them from my desk when they pass by, wink), and I’m tap-tapping away until it becomes something I would be proud to pass to your ten-year-old, and to my editor first, of course.
Here’s the interesting thing, my husband,
, and I write very differently. He’s a drop-and-produce kinda guy - no matter what is going on around him or in him, he can write a few thousand brilliant words ‘just like that’. A month or so ago, he casually wrote a novella in his spare time because he has to activate his creative superpower while holding down his very important daytime director job! Seriously, I have no words. He’s brilliant.I, on the other hand, need a clear calendar, clear desk, clear mind, a clear deadline, and I’m ready! I need beauty, inspiration, birdsong, candles, my favorite mug, and daily WhatsApp voice notes from a few favorite friends cheering me on. I read, research, mull over, dream up, imagine, carry, and court my next book, and then BANG, I’m ready to write it. And that feels brilliant too - just a little more stressful when you’re comparing days-to-deadline and your word count!
The point is, when you’re a writer, doing it feels brilliant. When you’re thinking about it or not doing it, you just feel like an impoverished moody (no pun intended) artist longing for a week at the lake house (not the same one Rowling is writing at, that would be weird) to finish your futuristic gothic-style novel. You just have to do it.
Current situation: I’m over here on my book-cluttered desk with two or three empty beverage receptacles (earl grey with milk please, if you’re making one) with responsibilities, concerns, and questions, but I’m doing the work and I couldn’t be more grateful.
My heart is full, my imagination is whirling and producing like a Willy Wonka chocolate machine (that’s just what came to mind, let’s roll with it), and I may have gradual carpal tunnel occurring in my hands, but more books are coming your way!
It’s 6.34 am, I’ve been up since 5 am with a puppy named Poe (after the poet, not the Teletubby), and this has been a fun warm-up before a day of writing.
Let’s do this again…
Fellow writers, tell me, when it comes to writing, are you more Dave or Leah?
I’m more Dave than Leah. And sometimes this makes Leah annoyed! But she is more Leah than Dave and sometimes that makes Dave inspired.
I thought everyone wrote short novels in their spare time?
I have certainly kept my writer era for the longest time. I remember the days when I can just create a poem in one sitting.. so I used to be a Dave. But now I think I’m a Leah, I need a clear mind to even be able write a good caption in Instagram 😂 Maybe when the kids are older I can let the writer in me to life again 😊
But because you have a book ❣️❣️❣️❣️ please feel free to call yourself a writer ✍️