In my head, when I pictured myself as a writer, it was pretty simple. Me, a desk, fingers flying fast over the keyboard, and my only resource would be the storehouse of ideas in my head.
Boy, was I wrong! Turns out that I don't get to 'just' be a writer. I spent most of yesterday morning updating my website. This is a problem, because 1)I'm not a big computer person, 2)I'm not artistic at all, and 3)have almost no patience. So adding my new cover and completely updating the layout to accommodate a third book wore me to a nub.
Then I spent the afternoon wrestling with Photoshop, to make bookmarks for my new release. Photoshop is evil. NOT at all user friendly. Clearly, in order to be a writer, I should've minored in computer science. Even though I barely survived the single programming course I was required to take in order to graduate from high school, many years ago.
Which led to thoughts of what else I didn't envision as falling under the job of writer. I feel as if I've earned a degree in public relations, now that I've undergone two promotional tours and am planning a third. I underwent a crash course in the military and drug running as I researched the book about to release. Maybe a minor in library science to cover the constant research? My day job is pushing workshops on civility - that doesn't begin to cover the experience in tact and HR we need in order to crit and judge the work of other writers. Oh, and the number one job I've assumed is that of a salesman, since I constantly pitch myself and my work to agents and editors.
Do I love any of this extra work? Heck, no. I want the fantasy writer life - the one where all I do is write on a foggy autumn day with a steaming cup of tea...and I get to be driven around in a limo to all my signings, and drink champagne on book tour. Well, it doesn't work like that. Not anymore. But as long as I still get to churn my story ideas out and share them with the world, all the extra stuff is worth it.