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Being a grown-up is a funny mix of good and bad. On the one hand, autonomy is pleasant. On the other, nothing is going to appear on the dinner table unless I or my husband has gone shopping recently.

One of the perks of growing up is that your peer group becomes increasingly self-selected. When you were a kid, your play dates were arranged by age and geography. When you hit college, you meet people based on the classes you choose and the activities you pursue.

As a writer, I tend to hang out with creative types who like to use their imaginations. As a result, until recently, I was pretty timid about admitting I was a writer.

‘Oh, you’re writing a novel? Oh, me too,’ was the typical conversation in college. You knew most of those would never be halfway written, much less published. Everyone was ‘writing a novel’. You learned not to be one of those people. It was too tiresome.

Now that we’re grown up and I’ve actually written quite a bit of novel—and quite a bit of blog—my husband assures me that not every person in the world is actually working on a novel. My first response is: Why wouldn’t you want to write a novel? What could be better than that?

My husband assures me that many people do not, in fact, feel the same way; we just know a disproportionate number of people who do because we like that sort of person.

Oh.

Well, that’s a relief, I guess.

Note: The novel is nowhere near finished. And the revisions are going to be fierce. 

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