So, yesterday the Internet blew up because of an article about what it "really" means to be a professional writer (that article isn't loading right now, or I'd link to it, but here's a pretty great response by Brian Keene.) Neil Gaiman voiced a response on Twitter. Chuck Wendig made a response on Twitter. People were talking about this article A LOT.
And I wish they hadn't.
Why? Because they are blowing my cover!
If you look at that blog post by Brian Keene, he says where anybody can read (and I mean anybody, not just those yahoos at the NSA!) that he cleans his house EVERY SUNDAY. That's right. He claims that as a professional writer, he has time to clean his house. There goes my argument that I'm "too busy writing to clean."
Haven't you had those days where you just couldn't motivate yourself to do dishes? Or one of the cats looked so cute sleeping on the couch you couldn't bear to break out the evil vacuum cleaner, even though you just petted a dust bunny so big you mistook for the other cat? Or maybe you knew the BBC was about to make a big announcement about a certain blue box-driving character, so you couldn't tear yourself away from someone live-blogging the big event? Seriously! How could I mop the house when I had to find out who would play the 12th Doctor?
And now I'm going to have to come clean about this lazy streak in me. I can't just wave a hand and say, nonchalantly, "I had a deadline;" OR "I'm a professional writer, so right now I don't have time to be anal about the house;" OR "The muse held me hostage at my desk. Dinner's going to be corn flakes."
I'm going to have to break down and admit that I'm sometimes just a slob. Or else do what I did today: plotted a short story while I did dishes. If I remember right, that's how a certain writer used to do it.
And if Dame Agatha Christie wasn't a professional writer, who is?