What It Means To Be a Writer

My 5th grader has started complaining about school. He likes his time off, playing video games and generally not having to use his brain for more than it takes to kill a bad guy via his finger. But to have that free time, I’ve told him, he has to earn it.

“You want to manage your own time like I do? You have to work for it.” The boy must get good grades and slog through school. Then he has to get a job to pay the bills.

Been there, done all that. I think my kids see me going to their sporting and school events or taking time during the day to drive them to the doctor or dentist and think I have little to do. How wrong they are!

Because I spent much of last week acting as a taxi service during my working hours, I had to make up for that fact this past weekend. While they played and had fun, momma had to work. I was up until 4 am last night finishing one stubborn, !##$&@ mother-f@!$-er of a story. But lo and behold, it’s done! (Yes, that is me below after saving the story and emailing it to myself in the wee hours of the morning.)

Ah, the joy of working for oneself. The office is always just a heartbeat away, and no excuse not to work, except that I have  tendency to be lazy. But that’s okay, because it’s 10:30 in the morning and I am still in my pajamas, working on edits for a different project. I need a shower, a cup of coffee, and to blink every now and then. But in what other career can you literally wear your pajamas to work? And don’t get me started on the joys of optional undergarments. (Sorry, if you’re a guy, you just won’t understand the pleasure to be had in free-boobing).

All things considered, this is a fine Monday morning. Sleep is way overrated. Coffee, however, is not. It’s a Wicked Wolf week. Go Raven’s Brew, go.