So, it's one of my greatest fantasies to become a commercially published writer. I toss in the "commercial" qualifier 'cause I'm currently rockin' this blog, so I s'pose I can technically currently christen myself a writer. I dunno; since there's no remuneration for my efforts I hesitate to introduce myself as such. It's something I can almost taste, though...kinda like when you really, really want a beer. You can just feel the cool sting of the brew on your tongue, and your salivary glands kick into anticipatory action.
Man, that makes me sound like a lush.
Anyway, my writing has been (how to say this delicately?) ground to a halt by being a mother. It's tough to squeeze in the necessary think time between dinners, and bedtime routines, and sanitizing high chairs. Don't think you're reading bitterness between-the-lines or anything like that; parenting is what it is. Anyway, Hubby and I called the kid into being, so it's not like he's demanding anything I wasn't prepared to give. I have my fingers helixed, though, that the new job will allow me a little more writing time than I currently get (er, besides what I steal at work for these posts).
Right now, I cull inspiration from the success of my peers. A half dozen or so people I actually know have been published (sure, I've lost touch with some of 'em since college, but I think they'd know me if I ran into them on the street). Companies have actually handed over some ducats for the words these people spill on a page. So, I know it's not impossible. I just need to keep plugging away at the little romantic tale I'm spinning...
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