I had preconceived notions about the life of a writer, like most people. They sit at their desks, pound out words on their keyboards for a few hours, and then attend to the rest of their lives. Basically, they turn it off and on.

I so wish that was true for me.

When I’m not staring out the window trying waiting for my mind and fingers to get it together and get some words on the screen,  I’m doing 50 million other things because I’m afraid to face the laptop that day because of self-doubt, fear, or  simply because I’m tired of watching squirrel foreplay. The squirrels in our yard are forever getting it on.

Ahem… anyway.

What I wasn’t prepared for was the story renting space in my head.

Lately, when I’m not writing, I’m thinking about my character and what she’s going to do next. She’s constantly telling me things- she wouldn’t wear that, she doesn’t talk like that, she’s a prankster, she kicks ass. Blah, blah, blah. As a matter of fact, the only time she seems to leave me alone is when I’m writing about her life. As long as I write what she tells me. If I try to write what I want, she kinda gets an attitude.

I’m finishing her book this month. She’s my first, but not my last. Apparently, there’s a line of folks waiting to tell me what to write.

They must be obeyed, or I’ll be forced to watch copulating squirrels for the rest of my days.

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