My Story

Most people are under the assumption that writers wake up to find a pen tucked behind their ear (again), and say to themselves, “Today is the day I will become a writer.”

The image is blissful as the writer carries his antique typewriter down to the dock where a strategically placed writing desk is placed to overlook the pond.

As he clicks away he dives deeper into euphoria as the story pours out of him and onto the page.

When he writes another thousand words over his projected daily word count, he says to himself, “I’m so glad I decided to be a writer.”

My story is a little more unsightly.

Instead of waking up with a pen behind my ear, I had forgotten bobby pins threatening my general well being.

Instead of a pond, I filled the bathtub (complete with rubber ducky for the full effect) and sat on the desk (read: questionable wicker hamper).

And the only thing pouring out of me?


  Lots and lots of ugly tears.  You know the kind that make your face crinkle in grotesque Phantom of the Opera type form.

I sat in my husband’s office bawling my eyes out, not because I was sad or felt forced to write.

I was crying because I couldn’t imagine not writing.

And he said to me the two most beautiful words in the English language.  They were the type of words that Shakespeare would’ve face palmed himself for not thinking of first.  The type of words romances were built on.  That cities were founded on.  That made dogs and cats sleep together…

“So write.”

Cut to two years later…

I’m sitting here, writing my young adult novel, waiting for my husband (to refill my wine already, hint hint), when my cat wheels the baby in and tells me they want to have their own talk show.

I lean back in my chair to look out of the office and yell to Kurt (who’s taking his sweet damn time with the wine), “Did you know about this?”

“Huh?” he says, poking his head in.  I nod to the baby who’s trying to catch the cat’s tail and the cat himself who has commenced cleaning his—nevermind.  “Yeah,” Kurt says, “They told me yesterday after getting back from jet skiing.”

“Typical,” I say, returning to my Macbook.  “It’s a good thing you guys are so cute.”