Writing to Work, Working to Write
Way back in the wee dawn of my first book--written during the time I should have been working on my Bio for Liberal Arts Majors thesis paper (no worries, I got an A! I'm a good bullshitter...) I wrote this fantastically awful romance novel. So bad. Like imagine the cheesiest romance with lots of blushing and stammering and contortionist sex and let it drag on for a good hundred thousand, hundred fifty thousand words, and you're halfway to understanding how awful this book was. It was kind of that cathartic, frenzied, "I'm doing it! I'm WRITING A BOOK!" kind of experience. Also I was 19, so I'm not about to be super hard on myself about what a wreck that book was because I was sitting at a computer, sober, creating really awful (reeeaaallly awful) ART, and that was more than I could say about the majority of my hopped-up, slacker classmates. When I was done, I felt like, "Holy crap, this better sell for a million dollars, because I'm not sur...
