When I dream about the life of an author, I think about David Sedaris. I picture him sitting at the beach on the French Riviera, having just woken up at 11:00 AM (he had to get up early today because of a book signing), where Hugh looks on disapprovingly as David struggles to string together enough French to order a Mimosa with his eggs and toast. Oh the dream.
My life, as I attempt to become published, is a tad different. My alarm goes off just before 6:00 AM. I make my way to the bathroom, banging my knee on an open dresser drawer, stepping on Legos, and tripping over cats. After my shower, I start a bath for my son, wake up my wife, figure out what in the house can be justified as lunch, and make breakfast. I go to work, come home, start dinner, eat, piano lesson, read to my son, and by the time his lights go out I am ready to shut down. Instead, I pull up my laptop, and write something. Anything. While my brain often complains, makes excuses, and calls me terrible names, it knows my head isn’t allowed to touch the pillow until I have added something to one of the projects I am working on. Right now in life, I am looking forward to the day my book will be done, and my poor brain will get a break from staying up late to write, and instead it will get to stay up late to edit. From there, we will move on to staying up late to research publishers. From there, it’s staying up late to write and submit proposals. Finally, it’s back to writing again while I wait for the pile of likely-rejection letters to return. That’s the life of an author. It’s a lot of work, it’s painful to the ego, and it is certainly not for everyone.
As a matter of fact, I think it’s safe to say most of the world is not up for it, and I don’t blame them. There are lots of things to do other than writing, and they are much easier and much more fun. Trying to be an author is exhausting.
Yet I keep going. Writing is who I am. And if you need to find me between the time my son goes to sleep and the time I finally pass out, look for the guy staring at a word processor while his brain makes little whimpering noises. Work days, weekends, vacations; it’s what I have decided to do. But one day, many years from now, if you ever find yourself on the French Riviera at 11:00 AM and see me on the beach with a Mimosa in one hand, wiping the sleep away from my eyes with the other, don’t judge me. I’ve earned it.
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