You’ve heard of that illusive muse, right? The thing or person that inspires us to create fabulous stories? She’s usually depicted as a Greek goddess with long flowing robes and one of those round cherubic faces. That’s the kind of muse I’d like to have. Unfortunately, my muse is an overweight, sloppy broad who smokes too much and drinks like an alcoholic and thinks flatulence is funny.

Seriously, I had to kick her out the other day. She’s been bugging me awhile—she’s hasn’t been inspiring me to anything other than eating, and really, once I thought about it, I realized she hadn’t contributed to much of anything but the grocery bill. So the other day when she started in on me with those subliminal reminders that there was a pan of brownies in the kitchen, and maybe if I had one…just one…I could finish the chapter, I said, “That’s it. You’re so out of here, Fat ass!”

Writing a book is hard. You have to have a cogent idea, and an opener the draws the reader in, and then 400 pages give or take of a plot that actually fits together and has enough pizzazz to keep the reader turning pages. On a good day, I am lucky if I can do one page, and trust me, it has to be reworked several times over. What about grammar and punctuation? Ever heard of a subjunctive verb? Yeah, right—the last time I actually heard that phrase spoken out loud, I was drifting off in English class and thinking of the cute guy behind me. I didn’t exactly pay attention. But my copy editor sure did—she paid attention to all that grammar stuff. I keep expecting the s/he to email me several sentences to diagram to see if I have even a rudimentary knowledge of the English language. But hey, that’s their job and I digress…

I have the greatest job in the world. I get to work on my own schedule. I’m in competition with no one but myself. The world is as big as my imagination and people actually write me to tell me they loved my book. I can tell you unequivocally that no one ever wrote me to tell me I was doing a good job when I was a public administration schlub.

So for about 300 days a year, I get to bask in the sublime pleasure of my fantasy world. But there are about 65 days a year that fantasy collides with reality, and I am suddenly in a gut-wrenching panic. It’s all about the deadlines. Not the ones set by the publisher, because chances are I am already way past that. I am talking about the date after which I know my book will get slid to another month, if not another year. The date after which publishers and editors will call my agent and ask if there is something they need to know—like, do I have a terminal illness, are my hands broken, that sort of thing.

I still have the greatest job in the world. But for me, there are roughly three times a year that my world gets a little hectic and a little more frantic—when one of my books is released to you, the unsuspecting public.

It’s a nerve-racking time because I generally have promotional responsibilities—book signings, a few public appearances (and I don’t mean at the grocery store, but in front of people. You know, places that require full metal make-up), and lots of on-line interviews and guest blogging spots. These are great—you get to connect with fans. But they usually require I write new, original copy, which takes up time I would normally spend watching soap operas. Kidding! I would spend it writing. At least I would spend it thinking about writing.