For anyone new to my blog, I retired last month. And I launched directly into the frenzy of getting ready for the holidays. When anyone asked what it felt like to be retired, I told them it really wouldn't kick in until after New Years. That first Monday, when I would normally go back to work and life would return to normal.
I've been a writer as far back as I can remember, but always sporatically. I made a reasonably serious attempt to get published twice - I have the required folder full of rejection letters - and got as far as being signed by an agent once. But whenever I got discouraged, I simply turned back to the job. It was the prefect excuse. I just told myself it was too hard to get published while juggling a demanding job and my family and my writing. (Yes, I know many published authors have done it but the line worked for me.) Of course, this rationale had the unspoken tag - if only I could write full time.
And I can write full time.
As the rabbit passed through puberty, however, it soon faced an identity crisis (don't we all!). It went to its step-parents to discuss the problem. It allowed as to how it felt different from its step-siblings, was unsure of its place in the universe, and was generally forlorn. Their response was, ... "Don't scurry, be hoppy."