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| 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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