I have a book signing tomorrow at Coles, Conestoga Mall, Waterloo, noon to 4:00 p.m. I’m spending the afternoon preparing for it, packing books, show cards, the paraphernalia required for a professional presentation.

Tomorrow, inevitably, someone will comment how exciting my life must be — pursing a career as a writer, being interviewed by media, appearing at book signings. I’m always a little surprised by the comment. This thing I do is a job. Just like being a banker or a tradesman, a nurse or a retail sales rep. I get up weekdays and strap myself to the chair and write. I spend time (too much time!) promoting and marketing my writing. I schedule book signings and attend them. I answer questions for interviews. I spend a lot of time hurrying up to wait.

When I sleep at night the novel I’m working on intrudes — plot developments, character motivation. The work never turns off, even when I do.

The only difference between my job and yours is that come Friday I don’t get a pay cheque. If I’m lucky, and have a contract with a publisher, that pay cheque shows up, if I’m lucky, every six months. If I’m not lucky, and I’m self-publishing, that pay cheque comes within 30 days after doing a book signing, or after having made some other retail or online sales.

Being a writer is a lonely pursuit, and that’s certainly not exciting. I write in the loft of this old stone house, alone. Having distractions like phone calls, or visitors, or email is, well, distracting. The action in the novel stops because I’ve decided I have to make a blog entry or see what’s developing on the Chapters Community pages. I strap myself to the chair again, harness isolation, and delve again into the writing.

Writing is lonely not only because of physical isolation, but because no matter how much I attempt to describe what I’m working out in a particular scene, what I’m describing is meaningful only to me. It’s not like I can haul out a preliminary sketch and say, “See where I’m going with this?”

And as for excitement because of an article or promotion that has gained some attention, the edge is taken off because you’re all too aware of what it took to get that far, how much sweat-equity has gone into that moment.

No, exciting is not what I would call this life. Wonderful, fulfilling, frustrating, compulsive, addictive, meaningful — yes, I would call being a writer all of that. But exciting, no.

Well, maybe if I ever have a book stay on the best-seller list, or even reach the best-seller list, that would be exciting.