Ever since the “publication” (read: lamination) of my first book, “Little Bear” (c. 1986), I’ve had a lifelong love affair with–and nearly blind devotion to–living a writer’s life.
I got started in academia because first, I have a taste for masochistic over-achievement, and second, I thought I could write novels at night.
Not so much, turns out.
But one, two, three degrees deep, the momentum gets you.
What does it take to stop that heavy stone from rolling?
Obviously—an inspirational meme,discovered guiltily in that dark realm of dissertation-deferment: Facebook.
I flipped a coin. And I knew. In that instant, truly, I knew: I’m outta here.