It’s been a little over two years since I began writing erotic romances. They say that for your two year anniversary, you’re supposed to gift the happy couple with cotton (which, what? Why?) or china (the dish, not the country). One of my publishers just had a two-year anniversary, too. Coincidentally, my husband and I are celebrating our twenty year anniversary. I’ve been deluged with cottony dreams and weird, significant thoughts every time I fold a towel or pick up a stray leaf. It’s as if I’m supposed to believe that these days are important somehow, when the truth is, I think it’s all just an excuse for having a party.
(Which I have no problem with, by the way.)
By the time this post goes live, I will be in Las Vegas, rolling around on a ridiculously decadent bed and trying to decide if I should eat chocolate candy or chocolate cake for breakfast. I’ll probably get some new piece of sparkly jewelry. The husband indulges me often, but this time I’ll take a minute and reflect on how we got here, two decades later. I will be happy.
The truth is, I’ve been writing since I was a child. I’ve been writing so long that selecting an arbitrary date to celebrate is strange and hilarious. Yeah, sure, I would like to make money with my words, but the truth is, I wrote long before I sold anything. I published long before I got paid. Given the insanity of this business, I suppose loving the act of writing is a blessing. I’ll keep going whether or not I ever celebrate an anniversary. I’ll still be writing ten years from now. I’ll probably throw a party and eat a ton of crap and the next day I’ll get up and start typing away, transcribing dreams into pixels. One of my characters will wear a diamond in a tin setting and no one will understand why. It’ll be awesome.