So. I’m walking through the office hallway the other day when one of the folks stops me. This is a person that rarely - if ever - talks to me and when she does, she’s so totally conceited and full of herself, it makes me want to punch her right in the face. She thinks she’s one hot number and boy do I have news for her. NOT!

(That’s Irk #1)

Anyway.

She gives me a little grin and I’m wondeirng what’s up.

HER: So. I hear you’re a writer.

Oh great, I think. Here we go.

ME: Yes, I am.
HER: And you’re published?
ME: Yes.
HER: Well. My husband is a writer, too.

Jolly good. As if I give a shit.

HER: But he’s not published.
ME: Really?
HER: He writes martial arts.

And we all know there’s a huge market for that.

ME: Oh yeah?

In my attempt to be polite…

HER: It’s nonfiction.

Whoopee. What is it about folks that think just because you’re a writer, you really want to hear about your cousin’s sister’s mother (twice removed) who’s a writer, too? It’s like some club everyone wants to be in or something.

(That’s Irk #2)

And then there are the folks that say, “I’ve always wanted to write a book” with that wistful look on their face and their head kind of cocked to one side. It’s like their dreaming about sitting at the computer with crumpled paper all around them while creating the Great American Novel.

(Irk #3)

The reality is writing is hard. It’s not so easy to make your characters folks you can’t forget. Or a story that just sticks with you for days after you’re done reading it.

So. Want to write a book? Well. Get to it. Hands on keyboard, butt in chair.