For my birthday this year, Mr. B gave me a gift certificate to a massage at a Fancy Spa because he knew that I’d been stressed out. He knew this because he’s been married to me for almost four years now and there is not really a time when I’m not stressed.
I was really excited, because a massage is one of those things that you would never buy for yourself, but that you will gladly enjoy if someone else does. I am starting classes today, so I really needed a massage. But, I have a spotty history with both relaxing and the service industry. Also, during lunch last week when I told my friend I was getting a massage, he said, “Oh. I had one a couple of weeks ago. It was kind of weird. They tell you to take off your clothes. It felt a little like amateur porn, to be honest.” Opposing feelings battled inside of me for the better half of two weeks before I finally sucked it up and made an appointment for this Saturday.
A good writer wouldn’t do that; a good writer would give every book a fair shake, knowing how much sweat goes into each word. Just yesterday, for example, I wrote 300 words. But it took me an hour. They weren’t even 300 good words. The good ones take longer. Multiply that by ten million times if you’re a full-time author.