There was a time when my life sucked. I’d complain about particulars, but I’m also intensely secretive, so you’ll just have to make do with that statement: it really sucked.
I didn’t have any money, but I had a laptop and spent most of my time hanging out at places that provided wifi, reading silly webcomics, browsing Imgur, and watching Hulu (back when they were still primarily free). It was my only distraction from how much everything sucked.
I looked forward to updates, and laughed at everything funny. It got me through the darkness, not unscathed, but still alive. Sometimes just surviving is a major feat in and of itself.
Writing is my talent and my passion. It’s what I have to offer to the world at large, outside of my ‘happily ever after’ that my husband and I have crafted together. It’s how I give meaning to lingering pain that would otherwise feel meaningless. I write because I am a writer.
I cannot, however, ask for much money from it. My soul won’t permit it.
I won’t be JK Rowling or Stephenie Meyer. No millions, no movie deals, no fame.
What I fantasize is giving someone else the distraction they need during a crappy time in their life, to help get them through it alive.
It’s not my place to ever know if I actually accomplish that goal or not, as long as I keep putting stories “out there” to land wherever they will. No ego stroking for me.
It’s the reason why I only write happy endings.
And that is my malfunction; the reason why I don’t advertise or solicit reviews. I firmly believe that I will be found by the ones who need to find me, and when they do I need to be within their grasp.
That’s how I will repay my debt to the Universe.