What in the hell made me think I could write a book? As I sit here staring at my keyboard, after having called it every name in the book, (assmonkey, assclown, ballsmacker, swampass, and the list goes on. Most of it unprintable…) I wonder if I can bring it home…the story, that is. I am the same way with every book I write. As a matter of fact, I was the same way with myself when I was an actress. Soooo, the problem is me…hmmmm.
My mom will tell you I’m brilliant at everything I do, but that’s her job. Thank you Jesus. Whenever I feel down I can call her and she’ll remind me of all of my accomplishments. Amazingly, her list seems to grow and expand in ways that are mind boggling. I can’t even recall  doing some of the astounding things I’ve done, but she swears they’re true. I have decided to take her word for it.
I suppose if I didn’t care about what I was doing and I didn’t love the bizarre people I’ve created so much, the process might not be so f%$#ing difficult. Occasionally I think I’m crazy because I’ll refer to one of them as if they were a living, breathing person, not a figment of my imagination. Thankfully my hubby is of the creative persuasion and acts as if my insanity is quite normal. Again Thank you Jesus, Buddha, Zeus and Brett Favre. I am a lucky gal.
Finishing a book is similar to the final stages of giving birth. Of course I had two c-sections, so that’s probably not the best analogy to use. But alas, it doesn’t end there. You now wait for the doctor (editor) to smack your baby on the butt to see if he cries (doesn’t suck). If all goes well after about six months (years if we were talking human time) you send your baby out into the world to see if he can make friends (fans). If all the stars are aligned correctly, your baby will become popular (sell like a mofo) and everyone will insist that you have more children.
And then you get back into that vicious, wonderful and addictive circle…wondering what in the hell made you think you could write a book…