All I can say about the writing life these days is that I’m writing. Not well. Not for money. But I’m plugging away, sitting down every day to try to find a story that sings and characters that aren’t boring, obnoxious, and superficial.

That’s the fiction-writing life anyway. In other, less exalted arenas, I am getting paid for my writing. (’Buy this product from xyz GiantSoftwareCompany! It’s sooo awesome!’) A few articles of mine grace the glossy magazines around town. I’m getting paid to teach writing. The occasional check comes in from a store that is selling my book on consignment. (As for royalties, ha ha ha).

It’s just life, really. I always thought when I became a published author that I would become an incandescent, glamorous being who churned out beautiful yet hilarious works of fiction on a regular basis and never 1)went on unemployment 2)struggled through horrible drafts and crises of faith and 3)got ignored or rejected by editors again.

Obviously, none of this is true. In a way, becoming a published novelist changed nothing and changed everything at the same time.

Now that I’ve completely exhausted my profundity for the day, I point you to my other blog where I’ve recently written in my trademark whiny yet witty style.

One more thing - if you happen to be a girl and you happen to live in Seattle, you can come see my speak (briefly) and socialize network at an upcoming Girl Power Hour this Thursday in lower Queen Anne.

Hope to see you there!
Rebecca