I WANT TO BE A WRITER WHEN I QUIT GROWING UP.

 

What would happen if I quit my job at the doctor’s office and took up writing full time? I’d lose my medical insurance; I couldn’t pay the bills. But might it not be possible to simplify? To sell off stuff? To become self-insured? And maybe in time, I’d make a living from my books. Maybe lots of money. “Sell a million books, make a million dollars,” Phillip Margolin once said. He sells a million books, intricate crime dramas with interest in his law background and lots of grisly gore. I don’t write like that. I write what I like to read: nice people, sweet cats, pretty pictures. The cozy mystery. If only I could draw like Beatrix Potter…

I love writing. I love making pictures with words. I love the feel of the keys, and the way time ceases to exist while I’m at the keyboard. Once I begin, it’s a blackout for me, but one of the nicest kind. Writing beats most everything else in my life.

Today for example:

~Outside~
A Rare Spring Day in Portland

And where am I?

~My Office~
Current View

Gotta go. A Crazy Cat Lady is calling me…