This is not about my day jobs, though each of them required a creative mind. This is about my addiction to writing and (knock wood) selling murder mysteries. When the nest emptied and I was rolling around in a house built to host dozens of kids, the silence was screaming.
The man in my heart kept me company, but eventually I had to face. . . .me. I had been writing most of my life, so something nudged me to gather up my bits of ideas scratched on corners of papers, and to tell a story of more than 70,000 words. I took a swallow of vodka and with my head down got into the zone.
Fortunately, coaches and guidance were not hard to find. I had a lot to learn about the development of characters, story arcs and plot twists. I still do, but that part of this journey is maturing. It took me longer to accept that writing books becomes business once you sell them. Whether it’s a hobby business or a consistent sideline or you make it as a full-time author, you or someone will have to determine when and how you will put your precious baby on the street. That’s right. The work that comes from Hemingway’s “bleed” will have a life once pushed out into the world. Its existence can be anemic or abundant, but it lives.
I thought writing would give the make-believe people in my head a stage to play on, and my hurting mom-heart something to fuss over. Not the whole story. The best part of writing is when someone reads it and asks when the next one will be out. Then, it is time for public relations to reach readers, and marketing to sell to them. It’s time for business!