So, I was sitting on the couch with my husband and my adorable son. He's two (my son, not my husband).
My husband says, "Are the twos really terrible?"
My response was nothing more than a smooth, slow, head turn and an incredulous glare, complete with a catfish mouth.
"No really," he continues. "I mean, he is so fun at this age."
At this point, my adorable son is sitting quietly, a rarity for him, drawing on his magnadoodle. But, I got it. It was true. Even though he'd had a meltdown earlier that day when I pulled out my dumbells, and cried because he wanted crackers and I gave him cucumbers, and literally screamed "no" when I told him it was time to change his diaper, two is a lot of fun. I imagine the answer to the "why" would be: because I love my son.
When I love what I do, it's fun.
I love writing, even though I sometimes have to kill my darlings because they aren't working out, or stay up late because a certain plot twist just came to me and I have to write it down before it's forgotten in the abyss of lost ideas for eternity, or even when I'm riding that roller-coaster of emotions--that all writers face--way down into the depths of self-doubt land.
Everything has its dark side. It's loving the bright side that eclipses the rest.
