I usually hate my love of writing when the bills are coming due. The mortgage company doesn’t want to hear that book sales are down and job prospects are low. The same is true for the mechanic when the car breaks down and the kids when they want a new gadget or trip to the mall.

I hate that I love writing when I remember what it was like to have regular bi-weekly pay checks and the ability to budget and plan because I always knew how much money was coming in even though my work did nothing to fulfill me or make me feel whole.

I used to hate it when, after a long day of work, I settled in to my bed and couldn’t sleep a wink because some imaginary character was prodding me like an insistent child, demanding that I go jot down his story.

I hate the uncomfortable feeling I get when I run in to former colleagues who ask, “What are you doing now?” and look at me with credulity when I say, “I am a writer, now.”

Finally, I hate that the modern writer needs to be a supreme marketer in order to survive. Writers are generally introverts by nature and the fact that they must become overt sales people is psychological trauma.

Thank goodness for the all the times that I love my love of writing. Like when someone reads my work and tells me, exuberantly, how much they related to the characters, or how my advice on a subject helped them out or made their life easier for a day. If it weren’t for those times, I would go back to pretending to be someone else.