think of myself as a creature of the night. Not in the cool, sexy
vampire sense. More like the mold that grows in the shower.
I’m an insomniac. I started
writing, at least in part, a long, long time ago to save my sanity in
the wee hours of the morning when I could not get
to sleep. (Yes, I did save my sanity. My husband has had me tested.)
Back in the day when I started
writing, I was a stay-at-home-mom. I did that for twenty-seven years.
Then God laid a job in my path. There’s just no other way to describe
it. I’m a GED instructor, and I spend my days in a classroom with young
adults who have dropped out of school and now want a chance to get back
on the track they strayed from. I’m delighted to be able to help them
with that process.
That leaves my days pretty full.
But it doesn’t matter. They were full when I was a SAHM, too.
I spend the evenings writing
when I suppose I should be watching TV like a normal American in the
old West (the old West with Internet access and air conditioning). I
set clear, but not overwhelming, goals for myself. I grow my Work in
Progress by a thousand words a day, five days a week. Many days I write
more, but I try never to write less. That’s a 100,000-word book every
five months or so. It actually takes more like three to write one
because, like I said, I often write more.
My goal used to be three hundred
words a day. I chose that simply because it’s easy. About three
paragraphs. But I found the first sentence was the hardest to write. So
words forced me to open that manuscript document
and start typing.
suppose you could call that
disciplined, and it would be if I didn’t love to write. I crave it,
thirst for it. So once the book document is open and that first
sentence has been faced head on, I’m gone, having the time of my life
growing my romantic comedy with cowboys in the dark of night (like mold
with Internet access and air conditioning).