"I'm going to write a book." I said, half in jest. Then I said it again.
|Image from stockvault.net/Chelsea patt|
I am sure that my husband was less than enthusiastic about the irregular paychecks this sentence invoked. I know he was ecstatic when I finally put pen to actual paper, rather than dreaming, thinking, obsessing.
I have wanted to write for a long time but life got in the way. A career in finance and two children have kept me pretty busy and satisfied. And yet. Things changed. I quit my job and quit my country. My husband and I packed up the kids and the suitcases and moved to France for a year. And is there a more beautiful place, full of history, romance and stories begging to be told?
Then there are the practical considerations. What better time to start writing than when I am on the other side of the world from family and friends? There are no pressing social engagements in my calendar. Having two small children and no babysitters means we are most likely at home in the evenings. Working from home is also a great way to work around school pick-ups and in my own hours.
I want to write because I am a reader. I love reading everything from Orwell to Stephen King, from Diana Gabaldon to Jane Austen. I even read the back of cereal packets but that is not quite as fulfilling.
I want to write because I have stories spewing forth from my mind. I lie awake at night thinking of characters or plot lines. Sometimes I meditate on a specific turn of phrase or mental image. Getting it down on paper is the only way to stop it.
I know it is not going to be a short road, nor a profitable one. But it feels right for me.
"I can neither file nor forget. Nor will certain ideas forget me; they keep filing away at my lethargy, my complacency" - Ralph Ellison
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