Frankly, that's a use of hubris. I have NO idea why life is as weird as it is. If I knew, would I have even gotten into the career track? Because really, Yeats' poem The Isle of Innisfree speaks to me on every level. Do I want a career? I mean, a career like the Real World dictates, a Career?
Not so much.
There are very few authors who can boast that they make a living doing so. John Grisham is one. Stephen King is another (an how awesome are we that we are a ph, rather than a v?). Robin McKinley is far and away one of my favorites.
And she is a loon.
Complete, total, utter, loon.
I'm pretty sure she's living the life I would if I could be her. Her blog most recently discusses bats. Knitting. Bell-ringing. Roses. Her husband (also a major and fantastic author in his own right). She puts up with silly crushes from fans. She wears Converse (sparkly, no less). She has no qualms about being August Majesty to Chaos and Darkness, also in some worlds known as gorgeous, beautiful, perfect doggies.
I'm probably, based on the royalty checks thus far, never gonna make it as a writer.
Just so you know, it took me 32 years to say that.
Only because I couldn't write cursive until first grade...
But I'm not going to stop. I love the world. I love the written word. I love the way the world looks when created by someone who actually loves language. I spent my entire life enthralled by the world as it OUGHT to be, based on descriptions, instead of the way it was. The mundane, prosaic, prozac world can be enough for some.
It's not for me.
