The Kind of Writer Who Pinches

I’m the kind of writer who still can’t believe she has a contract. I’m writing a series of novels and I’m getting paid to do it? Seriously? How did this happen? It feels like it’s all rushing by me so fast, but then I realize that I’ve been working for this since I was five. I guess that thirty-one years isn’t what you’d call overnight success. But I still have that heady feeling that keeps my cheeks pink and a stupid grin stuck to my face.

I’m the kind of writer who slacked off for years. I’d putter around the house in the morning, a pen tucked behind my ear. Before I quit smoking ten years ago, I’d take a spiral bound notebook onto the front porch in the sun. Just me and the coffee, the smoke in wreaths around my head. A perfect time to write a perfect story. Brilliant diamonds of words were almost ready to drip from my pen. I could feel it. Then I’d scribble a journal entry instead about my emotions and what my cat just did and call it a day.

I’m the kind of writer who’s finally figured out she has to write first, before anything else, or it won’t get done. If it means getting up at three-thiry in the morning to get the writing done before my twelve-hour shift, that’s the way it has to be (although there really isn’t enough coffee in the world). On days off, I go to the computer first, and work until I can’t bear not to look at email or Twitter for one more second.

I’m the kind of writer who has to pinch herself when she wakes up. When I meet people and they ask what I do, I get to say, “I’m a writer,” and it’s not wishful thinking anymore. I am a writer, and it has nothing to do with my contract. It has to do with the fact that I’m writing.

I’m the kind of writer who is finally writing. Every day. That’s the best part of all.