Stephanie Gayle

Sometimes it's tough to be a writer. Such as when your royalty statement appears and you realize you sold negative books (it can happen!) or you get a rejection slip from an esteemed magazine addressed to someone other than you (I suppose an acceptance note addressed to someone other than you would be worse) or you're asked yet again, "So how's the book coming?"

What's with the third-degree inquisition? Do I show up at your job and demand to see the latest spreadsheet/hairstyle/auto repair/surgical scar? Et cetera and et cetera. No, I do not. But once people know you're a writer they'll ask how's it coming, how are sales, when is the next reading and it's great that they want to know. Except when you're not writing and sales suck (or you don't know--this is also very possible) and the next reading is never.

Sometimes (this weekend) I just want to eat foods grilled over firey charcoal chips (because the very handsome boyfriend does not believe in the blasphemy that is gas grills--don't get him started). Sometimes I want to go hiking through the woods and commune with Nature. Sometimes I want to go to the farm and buy lots of lovely food and watch movies and make drinking glasses from wine bottles and do anything but write. Sometimes. Those times, inevitably, are when people ask me, "So how's the writing coming?" I'm quite certain my agent is not paying them to ask (are you?). But it does keep me honest.

I say, "Right now, it's not really coming. But I plan to write more soon."
And I do.
Right after I finish this burger.