“Write a story about an author who has just finished a book.”

I thought it would feel different the first time. More excitement, more pizazz. Little droplets of confetti falling from the sky. Strangers standing by the side of the road, holding signs with congratulatory messages: "You did it! We're so proud of you!" But they didn't. And by the time I finished the ninth book, I finally understood why.

I mean, I really didn't do much. I didn't run a marathon. I didn't go to the gym. I didn't run three miles every morning before breakfast. I didn't spend ninety hours of overtime at the office. I didn't lay down my life so someone else could escape something terrible. I'm not a hero. I just woke up and typed a lot.

People don't hold signs for typing. They hold signs when you do something big. When you cross the finish line of a marathon, they cheer. When you break a bad habit for over a month, they celebrate. When you attain something unreachable, they care. That's when the signs come out. Those are the times they stand by the side of the road, and tell you how wonderful you really are.

I just typed. I sat, in a chair, and spilled words onto a page. I linked subjects and verbs together with prepositional phrases and other fillers that made sense. And eventually, after a few months of writing, it was done. Distilled into one message, a single line from my editor: "Thanks. Congrats on being done!"

I thought somebody would care. I thought they'd be excited with me and celebrate that, at last, my dream was coming true. But I was wrong. Having my first book published didn't change anything. The only one who noticed was me. It was a cold dose of reality, but I got used to it. It only hurt for a while.

In the beginning, it was different. I wanted to tell my own stories. I thought that if I just worked hard enough, and told them well enough, people would listen. They would cheer for my heroes, and plot against my villains. They'd imagine the worlds they live in, and want to live there, too. They'd fall in love with an imaginary universe, just like I did. And I'd make enough money to buy lunch.

And I tried. I poured my heart and soul into those words, agonizing over every comma and conjunction, but nobody wanted to listen. They didn't love my characters. They didn't love their worlds. I was heartbroken. My bank account remained empty, and so did my belly. So instead of telling my tales, I wrote someone else's. I packed my dreams away, and focused on what everyone else wanted to hear. I gave them their words, not mine. And they loved me for it.

Regret? Maybe. But I don't regret writing, even if it's not my story. Maybe one day, I'll tell the tale I always wanted to say. I'll wow them with twists and turns, capture their imagination and allow them to see the world through my tinted glasses, just for a little while. In the meantime, I'll buy myself a nice bottle of wine for finishing another book, and start typing the next one. But I've learned not to expect applause any more.