A friend messaged me late last night: Happy anniversary, of a sort.
Me: [redacted because it wasn’t PG-13, but I thought it was the anniversary of some kind of sex, okay? I HAVE A FILTHY MIND]
Her, this morning: Uh, no. Yesterday was the anniversary of you buying a MacBook and deciding to be a FT writer.
Yes, yes it was. And Facebook didn’t remind me, so I didn’t know! But yesterday was in fact my five-year-anniversary of being a full-time writer.
I love my job. I love the freedom, I love the pressure, I love the creativity, and I love love love my readers. The last year has been one of introversion and reflection, and I’ve come out of it very grateful and happy.
Five years ago, I had three novels and two novellas under my belt. I was not ready to be a full-time writer. But I took the plunge anyway, and fifty-something books later, I’m so very glad I did.
Also, if you ever DM me something vague, I’m going to assume it’s about sex. Blame it on the job.