When I was young I wanted to be a rock star. Or a hermit. More than either of those, I wanted to be a writer. I had a very clear image in my mind of how it would be. I’d shuffle to my typewriter every morning with a cup of coffee—because that’s what adults drink—and dream up a new world and characters to inhabit it. So far so good, except give me a mug of tea, a shower, and breakfast first. Anyway, I would punch away at the typewriter and throw every completed page into the air, only for it to be caught by my eager publisher who would moan in pleasure at my latest prose. Once finished, the publisher would send the manuscript away. I would keep writing, and a couple of months later a box of books would show up at my doorstep. If only…

I honestly thought my job as a writer would be to write. I suppose it is, but those days where I sit down and create raw new material are rare. I love the rush that comes with writing a new novel, discovering how the plot unfolds as it bleeds into life, and being surprised at where it all ends up. But once I have a completed first draft, the writing stops and the editing begins. This involves reading what I’ve written, which is fairly entertaining the first time around, but I don’t sit back and leisurely flip through pages. I tweak every sentence, rewrite entire scenes, play with character motivation, and try to polish what’s on paper until it shines brighter than what I see in my mind. Then I start over and do it all again. The editing, not the writing. This happens over and over again until I can’t see anything left to change. That’s when the editor comes in and shakes things up, meaning even more drafts.

I’m not complaining. There’s isn’t an aspect of creating a novel I don’t enjoy, but how much time editing takes becomes frustrating when my mind is filling up with new story ideas. There’s the contemporary romance I want to write, the one that makes Ben’s life appear tame by comparison. Then there’s the sequel to a book I haven’t even released yet. Before I can get to those, I have to spin round and round in that crazy editorial dance until I’m dizzy, which I suppose is thrilling in its own way. It’s just not what I pictured as a kid. Some good news for my childhood self; being cooped up and writing all day isn’t so different from being a hermit in a cave, and since I have no boss, that rock star mohawk and hair color is totally possible!