I must admit that there are times when I just want to be a writer.
A writer who writes.
A writer who writes well.

Not an author of erotica, not a romance author, not a writer of fiction, or humor, or something with paranormal elements, or alpha heroes, spunky heroines, dark, light, mainstream, out-of-the-box.

Just a writer.
One who writes inspired stories or poetry, or even crass limericks if the inspiration strikes. One who doesn’t worry about where to sub, who to send it to, whether it’s publishable or not, or whether it’ll strike the right tone with readers.
Just a writer.

Of course, to say this would be tantamount to saying I don’t care about having a professional career. And that wouldn’t be true.
It would also be like saying I could care less about being payed for my efforts–which would also not be true. It’s a tough economy right now, and every little bit helps.

Ideally, we write what we like and hope it’s also something marketable.
Still…sometimes…