Is everyone writing a book but me?

When I was younger, I wanted to be Atticus Finch more than anything in life. But running a close second to my desire to be a lawyer, was my desire to be a writer. I wanted to write my own Sweet Valley High series for young adults. I used to write all the time - in my journals, short stories, and even some longer short stories. Of course most of what I did write was on a word processor on a disk that would never be recognized by today's computers, but I still have that box of big old floppys in the attic.

Somewhere along the road of life, I stopped writing. I haven't even been keeping a journal since the kids were born. I still visit the box of floppy discs from time to time, though. Does that count?

Alas, thanks to the magic of the Internet - and Facebook - it seems that almost everyone I know, though, is still writing. And not just writing. Actually publishing.

At first, the only actual writer I thought I knew was Judge McKee who was writing novels as a sideline hobby under the pen name of Evelyn Palfrey.

 

I totally wanted to be her when I grew up, judge by day, romance novelist by night.

But in the last three years, ie, since I became more internet savvy and joined Facebook, it turns out that everyone BUT me has been writing.

First, it was Philippa Ashley, with Decent Exposure. Closely followed by Wish You Were Here, Just Say Yes, and It Should Have Been Me. Phillipa was lucky enough to have Decent Exposure optioned by Lifetime, who turned it into the 12 Men of Christmas, starring Kristin Chenowith and Josh Hopkins, and now its being republished under the name of  Dating Mr. December, along with a pretty hot new cover.

 

And Rosy Thornton, another lawyer turned writer, published More than Love Letters. Then Hearts and Minds, Crossed Wires. Her 4th novel, The Tapestry of Love, is released this week, with a truly beautiful cover.

Juliet Archer wrote The Importance of Being Emma, and is working on getting her other Jane Austen modernizations published.

Elizabeth Hanbury has published The Paradise Will, Ice Angel, and a collection of her short stories, Midsummer Eve at Rookery End.

Georgia "Tink" Hill pubished Pursued by Love.

My childhood crib mate, Trey Moore, published his poetry last year.

An old high school friend, Mike Jones, has written several screenplays. His most recent one, an adaptation of The Minotaur Takes a Cigarette Break,  has a huge director attached to it, John Stevenson, who co-directed Kung Fu Panda.

Even my mom's neighbor's son, Mark Fadden, has published a legal thriller called The Brink.

And in June, Elizabth Ashworth's first fiction book, The de Lacy Inheritance, was finally published in the UK and will be released in September here in the US.

There are probably more friends out there who are having success as a writer, these folks just came to the top of my head as living out my dream life.

So as I placed my order for Rosy's new book, and Mark's book today, I couldn't help but wonder... why aren't I writing? Pretty much everyone else seems to have other full-time, real life jobs. And families. So why can't I find the time to write anymore? Looking at Rosy's new cover as I hit "Order Now," I wanted to move to France for the summer, and live the gite life with the family. Carl could telecommute. I would write (since I'm not a lawyer in this fantasy, I can just leave home for the summer and not think twice about silly things like vacation days). We'd ride our bicycles all around the south of France, shopping at little markets every few days, and eat fabulously wonderful meals and drink amazing wines every night outside, at a beautifully decorated Provencial table with sunflowers we picked from the sunflower fields which inpsired Van Gogh.

All this, could be mine, right? If I could just somehow find the time (and, more importantly, the long-dormant desire) to write again.

Ah, to dream.