Periodically, I have to remind myself why I do what I do.

Why I’m writing.

And beyond the obvious–I want to publish books, I want to be a best seller, (don’t we all??? And if you say you don’t, I don’t believe you), and I want to make money doing this thing that I love.

That’s the rub of it, right there… Doing this thing that I love.

Why do I love it? I don’t know.

There are days when the words take FOREVER to come, and I wonder “why do I do this?” When I get a really low royalties check, and I think “I worked this hard for this???” And I wonder, is it really worth it? Is it going to be worth it?

I don’t know.

I may wind up a mid-lister for my entire writing career–just sort of filling out the lower half of the bestseller list so other people get the top spot.

Is that worth it? Some days, that is worth it. Some days, not so much.

But the thing is, I will be doing this for the rest of my life. As long as I have the mental ability to write, I will write. If I have to do it with a computer, or voice recognition software or some other futuristic device, because my hands can’t do it, or because I am unable to type, I will do this.

Will I be famous?

Probably not. I know that. Will I have hordes of fan girls who squeal and rush and act giddy when my next book comes out? I doubt it. Wouldn’t it be fun, though? I’d be crazy grateful for that.

But I don’t expect to be the next J.K. Rowlings or E.L. James or Stephanie Myers. I’m cool with that. I do, however, want to get decent reviews for my books, and an occasional fan letter would be nice, too. To know that people like my books, get a kick out of them, find them funny, what have you, I’ll take it.

Because, even when I feel like crud, can’t think, and want to go hide in the covers because I got ANOTHER rejection letter, I’m a storyteller.

That’s what I am. It’s what I’ll always be.

And if I deny what I am, I’ll never get anywhere in life.

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