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. I can be anyone I want to be—from the heroine to the villain. And people actually expect me to indulge in the occasional cocktail, a la Hemingway and his daiquiri fixation. So, pour me a frosty cold beverage, and pass me the laptop, I think I'm on a roll.

But that being said, life as 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. They ask for help spelling words they've never even used in the proper context before (and with good reason). And they plop down beside you with a ream of paper containing the next Great American Novel (handwritten, of course) and since it's a well known fact you spend your days lounging in your pajamas, they ask you to "take a peek" at it in your "spare time."

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'd probably ask me to look under their hood, or change their oil. Ok, so maybe I'm not the best person to pass off that handwritten novel, but a little proofreading or helping write a simple paper is much easier, and cleaner, than fixing a loose timing belt.

Until they assume that I'll 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 I'll undoubtedly earn.

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.

I roll out of bed at the crack of noon when sunlight filters through the slats in the thick black out blinds, waking me from the best dream ever. Seriously, this dream would make an awesome book and I promise myself I’ll write it down later…once I’m fully awake.

But first, I go in search of a bowl of cereal, cursing my family for having eaten all but the last few crunch berries in the box of Cap’n Crunch, forcing me to either crack into the unopened box of Raisin Bran or dig through the cabinets for something more appetizing. That’s when I spy a glint of foil across the room and remember the chocolate chip cookies I baked at three am and stashed behind the stack of mixing bowls. I almost forgot about those. I stumble over the discarded milk carton the dog pulled out of the trash, and nearly trip over the stools poking out from under the island before I reach my destination.

I peel back the foil to discover half the cookies are missing (I’ll deal with that later) but there are still plenty enough to satisfy my need for sustenance, and I down at least three before making my way back toward the fridge for a glass of ice cold chocolate milk.

Once I’ve had my fill of sweets, I contemplate taking a shower before lunch. Ultimately, I decide against it because of the unnecessary effort it would take when I’m only going to be writing in my pajamas all day anyway. So I head back to my office—me and my laptop spread across my bed—and tackle the first project on my growing list of things to do. Guest posts for my upcoming blog tour. But since I’m a professional procrastinator, I decide to surf the net for a while first, and end up engrossed in Twilight fan fiction for half the morning…I mean, afternoon.

After running out of fresh things to read, I actually get to work (mostly plotting out things I haven't written yet, while I try to figure out who does what with whom) then I bang out a running commentary that ends up being useless to the blog I'm trying to write for someone else, but surprisingly perfect for the blog I write for myself. Then I revisit the idea of a shower, and as much as I’d fought against it, I'm glad I succumb to temptation. There is nothing quite as nice as a hot shower on a cold day…especially when it’s Tuesday. Tuesdays mean karaoke. Too bad my ninety-year-old house has equally antique wiring and I can’t use a blow dryer without taking out more than half the circuits.

Somehow, I manage to style my hair and throw on make-up to make my way out the door to the local pub, where, not only does everyone know my name, but they’re relatively happy to see me. This is a big deal when you manage to piss off your significant other on a daily basis.

The evening out is a much needed break after a long day of making stuff up while wearing pajamas. Because that’s essentially my job…sitting around in my pajamas all day while I channel the voices in my head until I come up with something that makes at least a little bit of sense. But to the outsider (or the non-believer) I’m just wasting time, slacking off, lazy…basically one step away from a pot-smoking college student with a White Castle craving.

Nah…I’m none of those things. I’m a writer.