Writing is not easy. Don’t let anyone tell you it is. I know, it seems like a glamorous profession. And there are those authors who make it look easy (Stephen King, I’m looking at you). But it’s actually work, just like any job. That’s the thing about choosing to turn your hobby into your profession–it’s no longer just about enjoying yourself. Now it’s about deadlines, and marketing, and money. Boo.
It’s mostly about me in my comfy clothes (tbh, some days that does mean pajamas), drinking coffee (or water, depending on the time of day), and doing a variety of tasks. I might be writing, or I might have fallen down a rabbit hole of research (this happens frequently), or I might be having a video meeting with my accountability partner (hi, Beth!), or I might be studying (yes, there is ALWAYS more to learn), or I might be banging my head on the desk because I absolutely cannot figure out Mailchimp. Or Google analytics, or the intricacies of Amazon algorithms. Then again, I might be giving my brain a break by doing dishes (usually while watching a podcast because multitasking like a boss!), watching a documentary on 17th century England (even though it has nothing to do with what I write), figuring out a plot hole or scene beat, or I’ve just lost track of time while in Facebook land.
I wish it was easy. I wish I could churn out a book a month, make my own covers, and handle my marketing like a pro. But I’m simply not made that way. So bear with me. I’ll keep putting my butt in my chair and plugging away. Send chocolates. And wine.