My Dirty, Twisted, Nasty Secret About The Writer’s Life

Writers have a hard time with reality. I mean, why do you think we spend our time in other worlds, with other people, doing things that aren’t real at all?

Do you know why? Because reality is hard. Reality is so, so, so…real. Like my daughter. To get her to eat, we gave her dipping sauces. Do you know what she said? She said, “Dipping sauces are too dippy.”

Reality. Too dippy.

A week ago, (my book is one week old!) I had a huge book launch, sold out of books, lived the dream. Me. Published. With an ISBN of my very own that I will tattoo onto my flesh. Everyone saying, “You must be so excited, so proud, so satisfied, to have accomplished this great thing.”

I nod. I agree. On this blog, look at the pictures of me, signing books, living the dream.






I look happy and ecstatic, don’t I? I loved all the people, all of my friends, all of my fellow writers and readers living the dream of a book getting published. Because any book that gets published is a miracle. I look happy in those pictures because I love the people in my life, and most times, they love me back.

But do you know the truth?

All of those things; praise, signings, book launches, tattooed ISBNs on pale skin. All of those things are great, good, wonderful.

But they aren’t the best part of writing. In a very real sense, they are a distraction. The best part of writing I do alone. And there is no praise, there are no claps on the back, nothing but me and the words and the story and the characters.

Because in order to have the book signings and launches and praise be at a level that would truly satisfy me, I would have to be standing in the Coliseum in Rome, Italy, surrounded by the literati of our age, throwing roses and money and offers of midnight trysts.

Like I said, I have a hard time with reality because I expect reality to match what I can imagine. And it rarely does.

But when the writing is good, and I mean, toe-curling, keyboard-smoking, Metallica-pounding good, that is when the writing is worth the effort and I tiptoe into heaven.

The only reward for writing is writing. And on some days, that is more than enough. And reality, or my version of it, is sublime.

Hey all, I have some flash fiction over at a fellow Crescent Moon Press’ blog.  Come check it out!  It’s about a broken girl and her undead step father.  And one good thing.