| First,
let me say this is how I show up at my desk every morning to write.
Dahling, I couldn’t possibly write a word unless I was wearing
3-inch heels with a Martini at hand. NOT!!! But it’s so different,
and face it, infinitely less scarey than the way I usually work, running
shorts and t-shirt with a cup of tea nearby, that I had to put this
picture up. I’ve been an avid
reader ever since I was growing up on a farm in south Georgia. At
that time I dreamed of writing poetry while living in The Big Apple
and traveling the world. Fast forward, bypassing lots of not-so-glamourous
jobs such as barbeque joint waitress, telemarketer, and corporate
numbers cruncher, to today’s reality. I write contemporary
romance, live in The Big Peach (ya know, Atlanta), and I’m
working on the world travel. |
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| Photo
Credit Marie T. Williams
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I actually
live in the suburbs with my husband, daughter, three cats, two rescue
greyhounds, and chihuahua who bosses the whole house.
Writing is one of the best jobs in the world
and one of the most miserable–depending on which day you’re
asking. However, obviously the best outweighs the most miserable
or I wouldn’t be working on that next book. So, here’s
the straight skinny on the good, the bad, and the downright ugly.
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No traffic getting to work
unless you count tripping over a cat or dog on the way down the hall.
The Atlanta commute is not a joy ride. |
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Lax dress code. Every day is casual day.
I no longer own a pair of pantyhose which is a good thing because,
according to a reliable source, moi, there is a direct correlation
between wearing pantyhose and the ability to think with any measure
of clarity and/or sanity. Hose, well stockings, to be exact, should
only be worn if they’re going to shortly come off–like
one of those slinky nighties from Vicky’s Secret that no one
expects to actually wear for more than half an hour. Ooops. I think
I just skewed out on a tangent. |
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Control issues. I’m
in charge of the world I create on paper, which is a good thing for
someone with major control issues. |
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Flexible hours. Who’s
gonna give you the evil eye if you’re late or take an extra
hour to do a little shopping? |
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Frequent breaks. Sort of like
the flex hour thing–who’s gonna care if you get up from
your desk for the 75th time in one morning? |
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Reader mail. This is my favorite.
I love to hear from readers. |
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My dogs and cats go to work
with me. They all lounge about in my office. |
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My office. Big bonus here.
It’s a sunroom overlooking a garden pond and a couple of bird
feeders. |
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Muse is a myth. If you’re writing
for a living, it’s work. And you gotta go to work even on the
days when work ain’t happenin’ in your head. In order
to hit deadlines, you can’t wait on inspiration to strike. You’ve
got to write through writer’s block. So, on those days when
the muse has checked out, it can be pretty miserable to write through
dreck. |
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Flexible hours. I know. It showed up under
The Good, but like I said before, it all depends on which day you’re
asking. If you’ve had a bout of self-discipline gone AWOL for
any length of time, then you’ve hit the miserable state of being
behind, with which I’m far too often intimately acquainted. |
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Isolation. I could install a water cooler
or deem my kitchen the break room, but I’d be the only one turning
up there. Thank God for the advent of the internet. |
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"Your-writing-sucks” reader
mail. Okay. Thankfully I’ve only had one of these, but it was
seriously no fun. |
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The common attitude amongst
friends and family that since you work at home, you don’t really
work. Actually, it’ll be a beautiful day when my books write
themselves. |
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My dogs and cats go to work
with me...ya know, it’s that depending on the day thing again...somebody’s
hungry, somebody’s got to go outside to do their business, somebody
doesn’t go outside to do their business. Oy. |
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Me at the end of a deadline.
I’m not proud, but it’s true that I’ve run out to
Wal-Mart to buy my daughter clean underwear because the laundry was
so backed up. Showers and make-up? Bwahaha. Those are a luxury foregone
on deadline. See. I told you it wasn’t pretty. |
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