Why do we do it? We slave over words. We pour our hearts onto a blank page. Instead of ink, we write with our blood, sweat, and tears. At home, our loved ones get neglected, while our work hours are spent with our heads in the clouds. And yet, we plow on. Why?
Agents reject us, publishers ignore us, and the only way we can see our novels in print is if we pay for it. And even then, the only people who will buy a copy are our loved ones (if we haven’t neglected them too much). So why do we keep writing when reality is falling short of our starry-eyed international best-selling expectations? Continue reading