Yesterday was the monthly luncheon for Smart Women Who Write. It’s not an official club; just writers who are friends. We write in different genres and are at various levels of publication, but we have one thing in common. We love writing.
All of us have lives that include families, friends, and, in some cases, jobs. When the people around us know that we’re writers, they are impressed and usually supportive. But they really don’t understand all aspects of writing. Just as I could walk into ANY pediatric unit in the country and immediately be able to understand how each nurse’s shift is going.
But another writer is the only one who truly the anguish of plot holes and the terror of facing the blank page. Writing is a very solitary job. For long periods, the author spends endless batches of time, locked in combat with characters, dialogue, and deadlines. There’s no meeting at the local pub with co-workers. There are no Monday morning staff meetings to fire up enthusiasm for the coming week. There’s no Employee of the Month. So I really NEED my monthly meeting and, due to a flat tire, I missed my fix!
Curse you, Phantom Tire Villain!