I finish each day listing five things I’m grateful for. Sometimes, this exercise takes a while, because I am in a Bad Mood, or I’ve had a Bad Day. I don’t let myself go back to the same things too often, or my list would like look:
Chloe purring in my lap while I write my books.
My keeper authors and their wonderful HEAs.
A safe place to sleep and enough to eat.
(Math was never my thing). In any case, that’s a nice list, it’s always true, and most of the stuff on that list IS a big deal. It occurred to me today though, that a slightly different list also deserves some attention: What do I like about being me? What’s going right in my, what’s a big treat that I get just for being Grace Burrowes right now?
I get to play Let’s Pretend endlessly, and I get PAID for it. Is that cool or what?
I can have a lot of solitude without feeling lonely. Very few jobs offer the exact balance of freedom and connection that being an author does, and it’s pretty nearly perfect for me.
I get to research ALL KINDS OF STUFF. Louisa Cornell’s great post on Georgian libraries is research. A two-week intensive class in Gaelic on the Isle of Skye is research. Recreating a 200-year-old recipe for syllabub is research.
I get to learn about language. Did Jane Austen use gotten? (Yes, so did Pepys, and Trollope, and Dickens.) When did direction cease to mean your mailing address? (Late Victorian.) Which contractions were in common written usage in the Regency? (Lots of ’em.)
I feel appreciated (see last week’s comment from Colleen, for example, among others).
I set my own hours, which is great for somebody who likes to hammer on projects with some intensity but not punch a time clock.
There’s a LOT about how I go about my life now, that I just love. It wasn’t always like this, but I’ve always had something–some small thing–in my life that was for me, on my terms, even if it was a “just” a romance novel to read before bedtime.
What’s wonderful about being you? To one commenter, I’ll send a big old bunch of flowers.