I wonder if Hemingway had to help his kids write book reports...
Being a writer has many perks.
I have an instant escape vehicle that transports me to faraway places without having to leave the safety of my bed…or my pajamas. I can engage in adventures that I would never be brave enough—or foolish enough—to engage in within the boundaries of the real world. And I can be anyone I want to be—from the heroine to the villain.
But being a writer is not without its drawbacks.
When you are a writer, everyone wants you to help them with their research papers…essays…or dissertations. The thing is…I really don’t mind helping. In fact, I like it. It makes me feel useful. Needed. If I was a mechanic they would ask me to change their oil, so proofreading or helping them write a paper is much easier…and cleaner.
Until they assume that I will write the whole thing.
And hey…my days of having to do homework are long past me. I don’t want to research a paper. I don’t want to read a boring book and then do a report on the contents. Especially when I can’t take credit for the A.
Then again…once I get started, I can’t stop myself. The writer in me takes over. I start to get excited about the topic. I suddenly feel the need to make everything sound perfect. And I’m hooked! They’ve got me…and the perfect paper begins to take shape.
And I still can’t take credit when I get an A.
Oh well…I suppose I should just stick to creating interesting characters…and writing blogs.
And maybe the occasional research paper here and there. You know…just because…
Until the next time…I’ll be working on a little romantic comedy for a change.