What did you imagine when you decided to become a writer?
I didn’t think it was all lolling about eating bonbons while the words flowed steadily from you, but I will admit to a few misconceptions. For one thing, I don’t get to sit in a cozy, romantic garret composing epistles in longhand, like Jo March. And, I’m not writing on a manual typewriter I’m lugging with me on my world travels, as I always envision Hemingway doing.
Instead, it is a careful balancing act, ensuring that writing doesn’t encroach on the day job or family obligations, but still striving to get in your daily writing. It is a frustrating exercise in rejection and fear. And it is often a life of stolen moments in the early morning or the middle of the night, frantic scribblings on notepads at the red lights, and obsessive backups of your computer files.
How does your writing life compare to what you thought it would be?