I don’t write fantasy, but apparently I live it. More and more often, I find myself day-dreaming about standing on a podium, being awarded a Romance Writer of the Year Award, making the keynote presentation to a sea of faces, eager to hear my words of wisdom. I envision jetting off to an all-expense-paid trip to New York to hob-knob with my adoring editor and agent, while they wine and dine me to keep me happy. Then there are the world-wide book tours, with fans who act like I’m George, John, Paul and Ringo all rolled into one, and scream my name, fighting to receive a smile or a coveted autograph.
Then reality bites and I realize I haven’t finished that book. You know, the one that gets me all those things, and more. The one that will catapult me into the spotlight and cause Nora Roberts to call me when she has writer’s block and needs inspiration.
Because, you see, if you don’t write it, it doesn’t exist. And even if you write it, if you don’t shove it out of the plane at 30,000 feet and see if it can fly, no one will ever know of your genius.
I cringe every time I see a statement like “just sit down and write” because, of course, I’m far busier in my life than all those “other” writers. The select few who seem to have lottery winnings or a rich Aunt Fanny to support them while they are comfortably ensconced in a leather chair, tapping away joyfully at their computer. I want to think that I’m too busy/tired/hungry/lazy to write late at night or early in the morning or on my lunch hour. But if I’m ever going to have the chance at even a peek at my fantasy, I have to write.
So, the next time you see a ream of paper falling from the sky, it’s my great work. Treat it with respect, and don’t even consider using it for the parakeet cage or to start the fire for your hot dogs.
See you on the podium, and in the meantime: Write on!