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I’ve always been a dork. My dorkdom began early on and I’ll take the easy route and blame it on my father. He loved language and enjoyed pop quizzes at the dinner table on obscure words and phraseology. The result of that turned me into the fountain of useless information that I am. I learn and store stuff that would – arguably – only be relevant during a taping of Final Jeopardy. I am, however, a self-indulgent geek. Regular pampering is part and parcel of my existence. I’d probably go without food to cover the cost of a mani-pedi and there’s nothing better than a hot stone massage.
I like to think I’m a decent parent, though that’s a tough call. The truth is, you don’t know if you’ve screwed your kid up beyond repair until they hit 25 or so, and since my daughter is now a teenager, the jury is still out on that one.
So you want to know the thing they never tell you about being a working writer? It’s hard. It’s supposed to be hard. It requires an incredible amount of personal motivation and self-discipline. You have to learn to suck up rejection and you soon realise that it’s all about time management. It’s not enough to finish the book, you’ve got to finish it on deadline.
But you know what? Despite those things, I love it. I love being a writer and all the crazy, quirky little things that go with it. Even the days when I take a break only to realise I’ve had the same clothes on for 4 days and my hair looks astoundingly like the ‘do Don King has been sporting for years.