Somehow it became a poem, briefly, in the middle...

I had an epiphany this morning. A writery friend was despairing about the 'not-so-easy' aspects of being a children's writer and was ready to throw in the towel. I have a wide circle of children's writery/drawery friends (yay - I love you all!!) and we have discussed the difficulties on numerous occasions. The thing is, the difficulties never go away. And the perks and/or pluses can be few and far between (far and few...far and few... maybe that's what Lear really meant). I don't know of any writer who could tell you it got easier. I don't know of any writer resting on their laurels, taking long exotic holidays on the proceeds of their book sales. I don't know of any writer who recommends this 'career' to others.  Apparently we are all barking mad because we have all come to realise the truth and STILL keep doing it anyway. But the thing is, it isn't a choice. Because boys and girls, we all checked in to the Hotel California, and you know what they say about that place.

But if I consider the question, what would you be if you weren't a writer,
I don't have an answer.
I could 'do'
other jobs,
but I 'am'
a writer.
I think its printed on my DNA,
entwined in every fibre of my being,
stained on my heart,
the iron in my blood.

So folks, there is no sense to it. Any rational person would walk away. But we aren't rational, we are all Max, in our wolf suits, hoping our supper will still be hot when we return from the land of the wild things.