This morning I was sitting at my desk in the office/guest room with my feet propped on the bed, deep in thought about what kind of vehicle my white-collar criminal would drive, and how the police would find it in the wilds of Los Angeles. Oblivious to my surroundings, I stared into space for a good ten minutes in hopes the idea fairy would visit.

When I returned to this day and time, my gaze focused on the debris scattered across the bed: A candy cane I abandoned when I gave up sugar. The blue elephant-print headband I use when my hair is driving me crazy. A copy of The Emotion Thesaurus: A Writer’s Guide to Character Expression. Notes from a critique session.

Suddenly it hit me:

I am an author.

Every day I get to make up characters and settings and plots that make me smile.

I get to research every detail that occurs to me, be it the advent of Hindi Pop or a war monument in New York City.

I get to work and play with other authors who encourage and advise me.

I am about to publish my second book. And after that, a third book. And after that, a new set of characters altogether.

Oh my goodness, what a privilege!

And yes, I really should clean off that bed.