Now, of course, I know the reality is different different. Writers struggle. Readings of even famous writers are sometimes just the writer, the sales clerk and a man who came in from outside because it was too hot and the bookstore was air-conditioned. As a book critic, I know how space constraints dictate what to review sometimes. And I know it takes me an hour and a half into the writing before something clicks and my characters start to breath.
I know that some days are just awful and troubled, but I tell myself it's my subconscious gearing up for a more brilliant day tomorrow. (And sometimes this is true.)
I know it's ridiculous to be jealous of other writers, because really, it has nothing to do with me, and all it means is I'm avoiding the page. (And when the jealousy happens, I always zip off a congratulatory email to the writer, just to shine up my karma.)
I'm seven chapters (halfway!) into the first draft of my new novel, The Missing One (and I know the title will probably change), and I'm learning once again (because every novel is a new thing) to live in the mix of fear and angst and let's face it, downright bliss of writing.
Dental school? Not a chance.