It hides. Some of us shove it into full view and renounce it, but it slithers back often unnoticed because of the intense focus we exert to make the time spent writing worthwhile, important. That time, that writing, which somehow validates us, sets us apart from most because we dedicate those moments we have to it and we indulge our hopes and dreams in it, and we just plain need it to feel good about ourselves.
Some sacrifice sleep, others family time, others fellowship with friends just to do this gig. We take it seriously. In order to produce anything of value the sacrifice is expected, required even. “I have a deadline so I’ll be offline for awhile.” Smiley face. Aahh, such discipline. Such admiration for this dedicated writing soul.
Market it. Facebook. Blog. Tweet-ledee and Tweet-ledom. Author pages everywhere. Hail to the newest novel. See what I’ve created. Please be sure to write a review on Amazon—if you don’t mind.
Bookstore signings, conferences, teaching.
Reciprocation? Not enough time—I’m writing my next novel and editing my previous one. Sorry.
Does it get old for anyone else? Does it seem too self-focused and self-serving?
Selfishness stands ugly. In any form. It’s too easy for me. I hate it.
God, deal with me. Keep me straight with you. That’s all that truly matters. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.