When I found out I was pregnant I’d just gotten my second contract with my publisher and I almost pulled out, but I didn’t. I wish I had. I know that’s bad, but since I was pregnant and also working a full time job so I didn’t give the book the attention it deserved. I worked forty hours, went to doctor appointments, where I was constantly being told to slow if I wanted to my baby. I had a rare blood type that in a nutshell if I wasn’t careful I could lose her. And then add in the swelling and the preclampsia I was a mess. I spent all the time not at work with my feet up not enjoying my pregnancy at all.
My final edits ended up showing up a few days after I had the baby so my mother in law helped me out watching her since I was on deadline. I knew she was in good hands but I still rushed so I could get back to the baby.
I was a mother. Now, she’s 1.5 years old and a crazy toddler. I managed to get Forever Love out while she was sleeping and now I’m emotionally drained. I can’t write. I’d rather be reading someone else’s novel instead.
So how can I call myself a writer if I won’t write?
Besides this blog.