Just keep on typing...

About six years ago I was working at a Health Insurance Company. I won't name names....hehehhe. Even if it would be fun to. I won't because of things like taking the higher road, and turning the other cheek. There's too much else I need to do than to waste time on the past.

I was miserable in my job. Hated a few of my co-workers (one in particular) my God did she get my blood to boil. But while I hated said job, and said bitch, I used my free time to daydream. I'm sure I've mentioned before how I would write down ideas for books, something I knew I wanted to do since high school. I always have more ideas then time to write them, and that is a good thing. God forbid the well run dry.

The point.....I had one somewhere and not just on top of my head. I guess the point is we make goals for ourselves and never know if we'll make them. Six years ago I decided I wanted to write. I only told a few people. My grandpa who believed, my sister who also encouraged me, and an ex-friend with benefits. They were the only people who I told in the beginning. The ex-f.w.b. (you know who you are Skippy) didn't believe.

It hurt pretty badly when he told me it was a nice hobby, but who was I kidding. I kept my bad job until my grandfathers health problems got so severe me and said job split ways, along with ex-f.w.b. some months earlier.

Point: I wanted to be published by the time I was thirty. My thirtieth birthday is in four days. In four days my deadline hits and I have not only one book out, but two. Neither one are best sellers or in huge demand, but I did it. I met my goal.

As my birthday draws nearer I realize how much I've lost and gained in the last six years. A job, an apartment, a few friends. Both my grandparents have left this world. Only one saw me reach my goal. God was she proud. Uncle Arley, she'd say, Uncle Arley always wanted someone in the family to write a book. I was the lucky one if we're being optimistic.

Writing has taken over my life.

I live and breathe it. I wake up thinking about it, dream about it. Writing is the lover that I can't have, the one you obsess about in a truly unhealthy manner. I love writing, I think to myself, I can't wait to see him again. Snort.

It always makes me think of ex-f.w.b. Of his harsh disbelief, and I want to send him my books in the mail so badly I can't stand it. I know where he is, probably has the same number. Not in a stalker way thank you, but because he was like that...the same.

I've written two books, had my second child, lost the two most wonderful people in my world, and their loss...outshines the success of meeting my goal. My grandfather never got to hold the book in his hands, and it breaks my heart. My grandma never got to see my first tiny check. I hate that life gives you what you asked for, but takes a little at the same time.

I need to make some new goals now. Maybe ten books by the time I'm thirty five, have one be published by a big house publisher, wouldn't that be neat! Buy a house, have a wedding, and get over the death of my grandmother. The last of which seems impossible, I see her everywhere, have to remind myself I can't pick up the phone and call her, or just stop by.

So I'll just keep on typing, keep having an affair with this flirty lover I call writing. He's pretty hot stuff.

Jealous?

You shouldn't be, writing is a whore, he isn't at all loyal. I see people talking about him all the time, but I can't complain. I'd choose writing as a lover over a living and breathing man any day!!!

(DISCLOSURE: I in no way would ever EVER cheat on my honey with writing, even if writing has the nicest ass in the room hands down. I'm the loyal sort of girl. Not to be swayed by simple temptations!!!)