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After a lovely vacation week visiting my family in the southeast, this is the official start of what I'm calling my "full-time-part-time" writing career.

I'll admit, day one (yesterday) consisted of not so much writing, but more desk-clearing and laundry. Still, it was a good first step.

This morning, as the cursor on my screen blinked in anticipation, I felt the first real wave of panic hit me since making this decision. All the usual fears invaded my brain: What if I get a massive case of writer's block? What if writing during nap-time and evenings isn't enough? What is no one pays to me to write a single word EVER AGAIN!? 

Typically, when in the throes of a good "career freak out," I head out for a walk. I'm not great at meditating in stillness, but a brisk walk often helps me quiet my mind. This morning I had two problems: First, the baby was napping, hence me, "butt-in-chair" in front of my computer. Second, it's pouring rain and chilly here in Barrington today, and I needed to be distracted -- not drenched.

So, feeling a tad desperate, I decided on another type of movement meditation: My kids' Just Dance game for X-Box 360.

I know very few people over the age of 17 who look cool doing Just Dance or any of those Wii or X-Box dance games, and I assure you, I am no exception. But this was an emergency.

So, I pulled the drapes, cranked up the volume, and just... danced. Until all I was thinking about was how to a master a move that no one looks good doing who isn't in a boy band.

I let go. And laughed at myself. And when the music stopped, and I realized I'd bested my high score in "Shake Your Groove Thing," I felt better.

My lesson for the day? Sometimes butt-in-chair isn't going to happen, until you shake off the fears (even if it's only temporary) that are holding you back.

And if a quarter turn and a hip slap is what works... then do it. Just dance.

I've been thinking a great deal about world building. It's an odd phrase, really. Sounds more like a subject for the Geneva Convention than the concern of novelists. But if you write fantasy, world building is key.

Currently, I'm at work on a middle grade novel featuring mice as the main characters. And although I don't have the daunting task of creating an entire universe with its own class, culture, government, technology, botany and imagined creatures that many high fantasy middle grade and YA authors do, it's still vitally important that the world in which my mice exist be plausible and interesting.

There are a number of questions I must answer in order to avoid causing the reader stop and ask them, too.

First, is the issue of scale. How do the mice interact with larger animals in the story in a believable way? Will my characters and plot follow the natural order of our world, or will it break those rules with a purpose?

What about clothing? How do I integrate clothes into the story so that it seems perfectly natural that a mouse would don a trench coat and fedora?

And the most important question of all: Is this an alternate universe where mice rule the day, or are they an adjunct, hidden part of a larger human world?

Believe it or not, when I first began writing this novel, I hadn't decided the answer to that question. It's only now, in the editing and rewriting stage, that I'm fully addressing (and sometimes grappling with) that issue.

And whenever I'm grappling with some aspect of craft, I find it helps me to look to the masters for inspiration.

Here are a few authors who build "critter worlds" like nobody's business.

EB White, Stuart Little

The Q&A portion of a school visit is always an enlightening, entertaining experience.

Time and time again, I find myself impressed and delighted by the intelligent, incisive questions even very young children ask. Questions about process, inspiration and creativity that reaffirm what I already know: Kids are infinitely clever, and we as authors and educators should never underestimate them.

Which is why I was not surprised when at a recent school visit, a little boy raised his hand and asked: "How much do you get paid for a book?"

I was not surprised, but not exactly prepared, either. First, I made an attempt at humor.

"A million dollars," I said, with my pinky to my chin, doing my best "Dr Evil" impression.

[Crickets]

These kids are in first grade. They're too young for Mike Meyers.

Then I gave the standard and probably all-too-confusing answer about how a publisher pays the author some money in advance of the book coming out, which is based on a guess of how many books the publisher thinks will sell. Then, if a book sells more than what they guess, the author gets paid a small amount on each book sold after that.

[Huh?]

I tried to move on, but the little boy was undeterred. And on to me.

"But how much do you make for a book you write?" he asked.

"It varies, depending on the length of the book."

This is true. Sort of.

Then it hit me. He didn't really want a dollar amount. (Well, probably he did.) But what his infinitely clever little mind was actually trying to work out was: Can I do this as my job?

To which my answer was, "I can tell you this, Chris and I make our living creating books for kids, and it's the best job on earth."

The little boy smiled, and I did too. Because it's true.