on Writers Helping Writers:

Like many other kids, I got my first job as a babysitter. You’re probably picturing me as a competent, CPR-trained teenager armed with craft supplies and a boatload of determination. But this was 1981, which means I was a whopping nine years old when someone put me in charge of their kids.

Who does that? The mom who couldn’t get anyone else to watch her little hellions, that’s who. Those kids were everywhere, into everything. And they weren’t listening to me, because just the day before, I was making mud pies with them in my backyard.

It wasn’t pretty, but we survived the afternoon. They ate as much ice cream as they wanted, the mom got a few hours to herself, and I walked away (directly to the arcade) with 75 cents in my pocket. In ‘81, we called that winning.

Some days, being an author feels like the same gig.