I, like many writers, have had many interesting and sundry jobs after college. Some fairly decent paying, some not, but all with one thing in common: the ability to suck the soul from your body and leave you a withered, bitter husk. Of course, I still looked good, but I was nothing more than a shell of my former self. And so I turned to writing with little to no expectations, and wasn’t that a lucky thing? People ask…how did you get published? Call the Vatican, because as far as I can tell, it was a full-fledged miracle. Time after time, authors will tell of how they were rejected by everyone under the sun. Hey, there’s a reason they say it. It’s true. All hail to Anne, the most amazing, wonderful, and damn discerning editor in the world. I’d kiss her feet if only she’d walk a little slower.
As for my personal life, I wish I could say I was a master of martial arts, but, damn…the dojo is so far away. But Bruce Lee is right here on the television. Or I could say I was a thrill seeker…there was that one impulse to skydive, but after you see one stout guy just a little too heavy for his parachute do a belly flop in a cornfield instead of landing on his feet, you change your mind pretty quickly. There’s always the fascinating hobby of hanging around the Sci-Fi/Fantasy section of the bookstore in the hopes of someone picking up my book. I could then pounce and say, yes, I wrote that. Shall I sign it? Yeah, I gave it some consideration, but visions of security tossing me out on my ass as some sort of psycho biblio-stalker gave me second thoughts.
I am a dog person (if you don’t have a dog, how do you live?)… and every dog I adopt is from a shelter. They were full grown, already house trained, and grateful as hell. Think about it next time you’re looking for a Rover or a Fluffy.