Shattering the Myth
“Oh, you’re a writer. I bet that’s nice.”
I can see the wheels turning, the envy in the speaker’s eyes as she says this. She’s picturing what it would be like to spend all day in her pajamas, or maybe sit poolside with a pitcher of margaritas, laptop in hand while she dreams up the alternate reality of her choice.
Should I tell her that I, like so many other indie authors, also work outside the home, the real-life, female version of Dilbert? Or that my typical day involves a never-ending sequence of cooking, cleaning, laundry, shopping, errands, and appointments? That my evenings are a series of practices, games, competitions, and recitals?
Should I mention that my stories are developed while I’m heading from one place to the next, riding the tractor, or sitting in a waiting room? That the only times I get to actually write something are those rare, stolen moments when everyone else is otherwise occupied?
“It is,” I respond with a smile. She doesn’t know it yet, but she has just become the antagonist in my next book. “It’s wonderful.”