Folks Want to Know

When new friends discover I'm a writer, when they find out that I've sold a solid dozen manuscripts in the past nine years, yet still work at a regular job, they pointedly ask why. Why would a rich author work long hours? Why would she endure an hour plus commute to a job that's physically tiring, emotionally exhausting, and spiritually draining?

Lots of reasons, I say.

First, I've been a nurse for more than two dozen years. It is work I love, work I'm good at, work that has meaning. Work I'm called to.

Second, writing is solitary business. I am a wee bit of a loner, and seem to become more so with each passing birthday. I need to be out with people even if I'd rather be at home gazing at my own navel. My job as a hospice nurse calls for intimate interactions with coworkers, patients, and families.

But there's another big reason.

Money.

Get ready folks. Here's the shocking truth: Writers don't make that much. At least few of us do. Like the wheat farmer who receives pennies for the wheat that goes into the making of a two dollar loaf of bread, writers glean pennies on the dollar cover price of their books. Which means this. You gotta sell a lot of books to be financially solvent.

More books than me.