The other day somebody asked me out of the blue why I write. My answer, as usual, is extremely simple—that's a damn good question.

Of course, on occasion I do challenge myself to justify spending hours hovering over pen & paper or keyboard & screen—especially on a beautiful spring morning—instead of going for a longer walk or digging in the garden. I'd like to say at some point in my life I had an epiphany & the clouds of doubt about my chosen passion dissipated, & the soft, sweet voice of my writing muse told me exactly why I'm drawn to creating fiction.

But of course, none of that happened. No surprise since my feet are too firmly planted on the ground, my eyes too focused on the task at hand & the next one on my list to wax poetic for long.

I have realized during this self-publishing journey, however, that I like being in the arena. I'm enjoying this time among "those who actually bear the brunt of the day" and "quell the storm & ride the thunder," as Theodore Roosevelt said.

So even though I'm not actively working on a new project while keeping my nose to the self-publishing grindstone, the sound of my next novel tapping its foot grows steadily louder.

Till next time,

Drew
Drew Faraday
Pearl Fields and the Oregon Meltdown