True fact: Writing, for me, mostly involves getting up before the crack of dawn and pounding out sh*tty first drafts (that’s an Anne Lamott reference, Mom, not me actually swearing, okay?) that I will later massage into something presentable, but only after much wringing of hands and, not infrequently, salt tears.

You see how much I love it.

Love, of course, is entirely the wrong word for the creative passion with which I–and many others–am infected. Need, addiction, compulsion–these are much closer to the truth.

It is also true to say that I love having written. I love that I am a writer. Because let’s face it, “writer” sounds much more glamorous than “accountant” or “administrative assistant” when making casual conversation at a party. It’s a shame I don’t actually like parties.

Moving onward.

I write novels. So far I have written one, which will someday make me rich and famous beyond my wildest dreams, or languish in a dark corner of a second-hand bookstore awaiting the arrival of a kid with 50 cents in his pocket and not too discerning a taste in literature. One or the other. I’ve also got a few short stories circulating out there somewhere.

I write magazine articles, essays, blogs, and a metric crap ton of professional copy. Writing is how I earned my keep for ten years (besides that whole parenting gig) before launching my full-fledged entrepreneurial career. I don’t like to toot my own horn (oh, who are we kidding, I love to toot my own horn but it sounds better if I don’t admit it). So, anyway: Toot, toot, I’m a nationally published author. I’ve got credits in Grit, Family Fun, Organic Gardening, and a slew of local and regional business pubs like Greater Charlotte Biz, Business North Carolina, and Today’s Charlotte Woman.

Writing is also how I intend to continue making use of myself when I have someday sold my business and retired in wealth and glory.