I was reminded today of what a joy writing can be. Not because it was a particularly productive day or because I wrote anything more eloquent or clever than usual, but because something happened to me recently that forced me to reevaluate my life, and, by extension, my writing. So, while I wrote today, I reminded myself how fortunate I am to do what I love for a living, and I savored every moment.

That’s not an easy thing to do - writing can be torturous. Sitting in your chair, staring at a blank page, willing yourself to come up with something amazing can terrify even the most seasoned writer. The process can make you want to throw your computer in a wood chipper, and then throw that wood chipper in a volcano.

Even if you’re tough enough to get past the blank page, you can still forget to enjoy yourself. As a professional novelist, I often find myself thinking of writing as a way to make a living, rather than a creative process. I release two novels a year, and in order to do that, I must be incredibly disciplined. I don’t have the luxury to sit around and wait for inspiration to come to me; I have to mine inspiration from the deepest, darkest caverns of my brain. There can be no debate - this is work. Nonetheless, there can still be joy in it.

Closing your eyes and living in a world of your own creation; watching as your characters move through infinite possibility; weaving plots, building suspense, laughing at your own jokes – these are the joys that writers get to experience. We shouldn’t let ourselves take them for granted. We shouldn’t allow ourselves to forget what it is that made us want to do this in the first place.

Sometimes we need a jolt to the system to remind us of that joy. Hopefully, your jolt will not be as dangerous as mine. A brush with death, though inspiring, is not what I would recommend.