Real writers don’t make excuses.
People have told me I have a lot of ‘life’ excuses to not write. I have a beautiful wife. I have two wondrous kids, one of whom has autism. I enjoy time with friends and family. I work. I have a mortgage. I am the ultimate armchair sports fan. I never turn down a beer. I have an unhealthy fondness for karaoke.
I also have more than my fair share of ‘credibility’ excuses to not write. No formal study of literature. No writing courses undertaken. Only a handful of the ‘classics’ ever read. My first collection of stories never made it beyond a longhand manuscript. My first novel was a painful learn-on-the-job. My subsequent works – even those those that achieved acclaim – have been rejected most every way possible; I would guesstimate 500 times, and counting. Oh, and I was a PE teacher for thirteen years.
There are lots of excuses why I shouldn’t write. But a thousand excuses are no match for the single, bona fide reason I should:
It’s what I do.