Rick Riordan's Baby

I sat beside a woman on the train today. She was crocheting, wearing these big teal headphones, all curled up on that seat like a sleeping baby squirrel. Her hands moved like a metronome. Tink, tink, tink, tink. And I watched her work at her hobby with this sort of blissful monotony.

I admire that, really. As an author, I feel like my caffeinated word-storms are anything but blissful. Because my books, my hobbies, need a cause.

Why? Who knows. Maybe my bank account is moonlighting as a starving orphan child in commercials set to Sarah Mclachlan. Maybe it’s revenge, and I’ve actually needed therapy for 23 years, but have found keyboards to be cheaper. Who can say?

We do what we do because we love to.

I expel my book into the world like a woman giving birth: screaming, all the while. Because it’s big. And it hurts. And while a lot of people are involved (and watching / reading), it’s intimate.

Sure, it’s risky. Audiences, or even romantic partners, may criticize your child.

“He’s too short.” They say.

“Why can’t your baby be more like Rick Riordan’s baby?” They also say.

But you don’t do it for them. You do it to find your own blissful monotony.

You do it because you need it, as much as it needs you.

You do it because you love to.

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