I had the best news in my inbox the other night from one of my publishers. I got it while at work, on my phone that kept freezing and not showing me my messages. The email was in my inbox sometime after 7pm. I actually read it close to 9pm. For me, that’s an abnormality.
After crying, and calling the Mr—waking him from a deep sleep, I decided to write this post.
I remember the days before I began writing. Days when the need to tell the stories in my head was almost painful and stifling. I remember when I berated myself for even thought about writing. No one cares. What makes you think you can write? It looks easy enough, but really, you do it?
Those weren’t words from anybody else. Those were the things I said to myself. Writing romance. Sure people do it, but me?
Something comes over me at the thought of books and words and characters. My characters take over my soul. Steal my breath. They make my heart race.
The other night I was reminded of why.
The other night I was rewarded for that by becoming eligible for PAN membership in the RWA. Now, I don’t belong to the organization, but I still get the enormity of it. Make Me Sweat sold over 800 copies from June to September. Dude!
Not that I needed that to know. Just having my books liked by one person was enough. But I’ll take the good reviews and own the bad ones, I’ll take them all. The spotlights and interviews help. My peers shout-outs are awesome, but it’s all on me.
My winnings. My failings. My highs. And the lows. My words, my blood, my sweat, my tears. The happy ones. The sad ones. The painful ones too.
My escape has always been between the pages of a book. Do you know what it does to me that I can provide the same thing for another person? It’s huge.
My childhood wasn’t pretty, in fact it was fucked in a lot of ways. But yet in others, I had happiness and peace. I had a mother who loved books despite having dropped out of school at 15. She always had books around. Always. We read the same things, until she started hiding her explicit romances from me J
Best believe I found them.
Of all the kids my mother had, none are like me. They all could care less about a freaking book, but they don’t tease me too bad about my thing. I’ve always been that way, you see.
The Mr. hates the time I spend on the computer because it takes away from family time, from he time. He does his best to understand, to support, but I haven’t made it easy.
That call I made to him may have eased his misgivings a little…I’m just saying.
I have a love affair with the people in my head, they keep me sane while driving me crazy. It’s a beautiful thing so when you get the news like I got, there’s nothing to do but cry. There’s a crazy-ass smile on my face and I don’t think it’ll be going away for a while.
Readers, you are my peeps. I get you. I know you. I love you.
Writers, I feel y’all. The struggles, the doubts, the fears. They all melt away once we start tapping those keys, don’t they?