Every week, I write a minimum of five blogs (3 here, Thursdays here, sometimes here and book reviews here). Often more. I read and critique pages and chapters for other people. I moderate a large group of authors and try to keep hot topics and discussions under control. I attend weekly critique sessions that last for several hours at a time. I read and review books written by authors who aren’t necessarily within my genre, because publicists or blog tour organizers ask. I organize writing activities and get-togethers to help foster a feeling of belonging within the writing community.
On top of all that, I somehow manage to take care of my family, taxi my kids around between a wide variety of sports and activities, spend time with my husband, and I almost never miss my monthly (or sometimes more often) night out with the girls.
And I write. Whenever I can, for as long as I’m able. Because I want to. Because even though I didn’t know it for a while, it’s what I was born to do. A hidden love I didn’t discover until my kids were all in school.
Someone once asked why I try to do so much. It made me think. Made me wonder, and ponder, and question.
Sometimes you do things because they make you happy, or because you love it. And maybe you don’t know how to not help others after a while.
Sometimes you do something because you know you should, even if you think you’ll never get anything out of it.
Sometimes you go out of your way to do something because it’s the right thing, even if it hurts.
Sometimes it’s about your contribution to the world. To the universe. To the higher power in which you put so much faith and belief.
And sometimes it just comes down to being who you are and living an authentic life that makes you happy.
Seriously? Happiness is the BESTEST! That’s why.