There's a moment I experience almost daily. It can hit me when I'm washing the dishes or driving to work. It usually shows up when I'm doing something really mundane. It goes something like this:
My book is finally finished and I've submitted it to an agent. She's powerful and connected. More importantly, she gets it. I mean, she knows what I've handed off to her is really something special. After a phone call and a few meetings, it's done. The book is on it's way to the publisher. The publisher knows that they have the right property and really get behind it. It hits the stands and it finds its audience. The money comes in and I get to quit my day job. From there, I buy a nice country house for the family and I get to settle in on doing exactly what I love to do. My calendar is cleared off for the next forty years and I'm able to turn out brilliantly written prose to an adoring audience. Fade to black.
I'll admit that I go there on the daily. It's the lottery ticket dream; one face picked out of the crowd and sent to the top of the mountain. However, in this case, it's my face.
Here's the reality that I deal with. That dream may be the only payday I ever get for my work. Am I okay with that? I have to be. The only thing that I have any control over are my actions. I've written thousands upon thousands of words that no one cares about and aren't asking to see. I'm not embarrassed to admit that. I take time away from my family ever single day in order to sit and try to craft a book no one may ever read.
What if I write it and no one cares? Guess what? Right now, no one does. And yet, here I sit, plugging along on a young adult, coming of age story that sprawls across parallel worlds. I do it because I have to do it even of it never leaves the privacy of my hard drive.