Like many self-pubbed authors out there, writing is not my full-time job. It is what I do in those spare moments, weekends, and school breaks, when the characters in my brain insist on being let out, even if it's just to say one quick thing. And though I work hard to make time for it, because I love it and I need it, there are times in my life when kids and husband and work come first and before you know it, it's been a month and all those WIPs I've got saved on my hard drive have more dust on them than my shelf of chotchkes. I tell myself I just need to get such and such done, get through this week, get to Sunday where no one has soccer or dance or dental appointments and I can dust off that niggling story and get lost for an entire afternoon. Then I get there and it's good. Or it's not that good sometimes, but still so good. And I remember, I don't have to keep up with those who are putting out books every few months, who are so good at the social media part. I'm doing all this because it's a need, the desire to write, to tell stories, and I've already done more with the books I've written than I really ever expected I could.