I am thankful that three years ago I decided it was time, and that if I really wanted to be a writer, I better get to it.
I am thankful that my husband supports this crazy venture, and if he’s not always into my work (I haven’t written any dirt-dry biographies of dead presidents, after all), he’s consistently enthusiastic and understanding when it comes my commitment to it.
I am thankful for the many, many, amazing and colorful writers I’ve connected with, both on-line and in person, who share their work with me and get it when my Facebook status reports a word-count or the number of pages I’ve edited or a new contract. You’ve truly made the journey worthwhile, and my life would be lesser without you.
I am thankful for my non-writer friends, who knew me before I had this obsession and are still willing to listen to my detailed plot summaries and character analysis over beer and crack chips.
I am thankful that my kids think it’s cool that their mother’s a writer.
And I am tremendously thankful that the ideas keep coming. Don’t want to poke at that one too much. Just, thanks.