“Are you crazy?” a woman I’d just met began, perplexed. “Why bother writing if you can’t make a living at it?”
Back in 2001, when stories I had locked away in my brain found their way to paper, I felt God was giving me another talent to play with. From the time I was young, I was pulled to the arts: drawing, painting, sculpting, even sewing. Later, music entered with my first guitar, and off I was in folk land, singing the songs of John Denver, Joan Baez and Peter, Paul and Mary. And while I treasured every moment of creation, even occasionally making decent money from each, I was raised to believe the arts were just a nice hobby. They couldn’t be the sole occupation for people who had bills to pay. So I understood her confusion, especially when writing can be a laborious process for little or no pay.