A coworker just asked me if I would ever consider doing something else as a career. My mind immediately traveled to my semi-hidden yen to be a globally read romance novelist, and my answer in my head was an emphatic “Hell yeah!” Of course, like a good little cubicle soldier I said something like, “No, I enjoy my work. I’m a career journalist, blah blah blah.” A classic truth/misdirection.
Writing for me is so all encompassing the only other careers I could imagine being happy in would be in the arts. A singer or an actress, and only that because I love writing stories about singers, and in the privacy of my home I can’t help but act out little bits of stories as though I were occupying my character’s various shoes.
You know you do that. Speak in accents from places you’ve never been, or cry from imaginary wounds gotten in the thick of imaginary battles fought between modern day witches and demons looking to steal back artifacts that … no?
Forget I said anything.