Mostly I hang out with other writers or people who absolutely don’t care that I’m a writer. (I’m looking at you, Dad.) But occasionally I find myself in the company of someone who thinks I am simply fantastic for no other reason than there are books published with my name on them.
It inflates my ego more than a summer supply of beach toys.
But that doesn’t last long, for I know the truth about my “glamorous writer’s life.”
For instance, I know that sometimes I must hand-deliver a sandwich bag full of dog poo to the vet’s office.
And that is not a glamorous dog I own, either. Trust me.