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.
Has too much time on her hands.
Doesn’t have to work.
She’s just playing around.
It will never go anywhere.
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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