Sickness

In spite of my first story’s rather raw state, my family and friends said they loved it, that they couldn’t put it down. I was ecstatic. Who wouldn’t be? However, that encouragement was exactly what I needed. Would I have continued to write if they had told me I sucked? Probably not. Definitely not.

At least not with publication in mind.

The bug had hit me. Now I had a need to write. It was like a sickness. I wasn’t happy if I didn’t sit at my computer and put my thoughts into words for the day. Now I was that person, the one who says, ‘I’m writing a book,’ and everyone nods their heads at you and their eyes glaze over with boredom.

Of course, I kept my new obsession to myself. The fact that I was writing books now became a carefully guarded secret, something I dare not tell anyone, else the glazed look would ensue and I would feel silly. I could hear their thoughts. I was sure of it.

Dreamer.

Wasting time.

Has too much time on her hands.

Doesn’t have to work.

She’s just playing around.

It will never go anywhere.

Get serious!

Oh brother.

This is what I imagined people would say. But no one did. As a matter of fact, when I shared my dirty little secret, people said, “Good for you,” “Let me know when I can read it,” or “I’ve always wanted to do that.”

Me too. And I will always do this. Even if my books aren’t successful. Even if no one ends up liking them. Because I like them. I enjoy writing them. And if I happen to earn a little money in the process . . . yeah! It will be a huge bonus.

But, what if other people do like them? What if I do earn a little money to help pay off all those darn college loans? Wouldn’t that be fantastic?

Oh yes, it would. So I kept writing, indulging my new obsession.

And I was hooked.

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