It’s pretty amazing that we can spend 30–40 years doing what we thought was right, or worthy, all because people kept saying, “Do you have a job? How much are you making? Feel like going south in April? Do you have a degree? Are you a professional?” Well, yes to everything, but Sunday nights were always hellish, and Monday morning status meetings were worse—all to say I was successful in someone else’s eyes. Now my office is 10 feet from my bedroom, I start at 4:30 in the morning, write until noon, and paint walls in the basement until dinner. I don’t even care if I’m in the right place (well, it’s pretty amazing in Dover), and I haven’t watched a movie in months, or been to a fancy restaurant, or took in a big concert. It’s a hellish existence to some, but this is my kind of hell. I’ve also never walked so much in my life (and I’m a walker!)

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I did a poor imitation of Don Draper for 40 years before writing my first novel. I'm currently in the final stages of a children's book. Lucky me.

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