Sometimes the sheer weight of dour posts by writers lamenting the existential awfulness of writing makes me want to bang my head on the wall.

I like my job. I like writing. It’s fun. Writing is joyous and freeing and an absolute delight. I play make believe every day, and people pay me for it. If you had told me as a child that was an actual job, I would never have been in any doubt what I wanted to be when I grew up. Seriously, I am excited to go to work almost every freaking day.

I am a lifelong fan of science fiction and fantasy. I love magic deep down in my bones, and being a writer is magic. I conjure magical realms into existence before breakfast, invent alien races while my tea brews, and convince other people that my invisible friends are their friends too, giving them a life beyond the confines of my imagination.

Sometimes, I write myself into a corner with no apparent exits where I can’t see any way out. And that’s fun too because then I get to be Houdini and make the impossible escape. It can be dark and scary and hard then, but I like solving difficult problems and pushing myself to do things I didn’t know I could do.

Do I have days where it is hard? Of course. Do I have days when I am depressed? Likewise. Do I have days when I get stuck in a story and it’s extra hard and extra depressing? Yep. Do I acknowledge that I am particularly neurochemically fortunate in that my depression is usually a mild and passing thing, and that many other artists are less fortunate? Absolutely.

None of that changes the fundamental truth that my job is ball.