The writer I was 20 years ago thought that I could sell a book …note… a book, as in singular, and be made for life. But hey, I was 11. That’s understandable, right?

The writer I was 10 years was bored. Bored with writing, bored with trying to finish stories that didn’t want to be finished. Thank God I’m not her anymore.

The writer I was 5 years ago thought that if I could just get published, a couple of books, I could pay off some credit cards and maybe, just maybe, in a few years, like ten or so, I could afford to write full time and maybe work the day job part time. Fortunately, she was wrong.

The writer I am now knows that I’ll never be completely without debt, that even if the stories don’t want to be finished, they need to be, and even if I don’t make it rich with one book, I’m doing what I love, getting paid for it and while it’s not a perfect job, it’s the one I want.

Wonder what another 10 years will bring.