Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve been a writer. I obviously don’t mean professionally–I mean on a heart level. My mother tells me stories about when I was about ten or eleven and I’d get so incredibly cranky that she’d send me up to my room to write something. When I reemerged, I’d be cheerful again and I’d have a new story written.

I’ve always been that way. If I don’t have something to work on, I’m a wreck. In fact, when I take a week off of my writing schedule, I’ll find myself feeling insecure for no logical reason, socially awkward, moody… then I figure that I should probably get back to work and all those unpleasant feelings melt away and I’m back to my normal self again.

Luckily, I’m now writing for three different Harlequin lines, so I’m no longer left without a writing project in front of me. And I don’t use the word “Luckily” lightly. I may have worked my tail off for this, but I know there are talented writers out there who have worked just as hard who haven’t had the same breaks. So I appreciate this–treasure it, even. And I never take it for granted.

Because even if I weren’t this ridiculously lucky… even if I didn’t have editors willing to work with me and an amazing publisher wanting to sell my stories, I’d still be doing this–sitting in front of my computer, hammering out stories and sending them off to magazines, publishing houses, competitions. Anything. Because when I don’t write, I’m a wreck. This is who I am. And before there was a publisher willing to look at my work, I was there, in front of my computer, clacking away on the stories that filled my head.