Editor’s Note: Sandra Brown is the author of 56 New York Times bestsellers, most recently Play Dirty, which debuted at no. two on The New York Times hardcover fiction bestseller list. Her forthcoming book, Smoke Screen, will be published on August 12. Update, 08.12:  Sandra’s brand new book reached shelves today!

Recently I got a call from a young woman identifying herself as a producer for a show on one of the satellite networks. (You’d know it, but I won’t name it here.) She invited me to appear on one of their regularly scheduled and well-watched programs to discuss my book. Enthusiastically, I accepted.

But I needed clarification on one vital question: "Which book do you want me to discuss?"

She replied, Women in Love With Psychopaths.

Talk about a thriller.

But since I’ve been married to the same man for 40 years — he has his quirks, but I wouldn’t go so far as to call him psychopathic — and since all 70 of my published books are fiction, I had to tell her she had the wrong Sandra Brown.

Which I believe is the same thing I said to David Morrell when, on behalf of the International Thriller Writers, he called asking if I would honor the organization by accepting the title of ThrillerMaster of 2008. Mr. Morrell has an impressive list of writing credits, not the least of which is the character of Rambo, which he created and Sylvester Stallone immortalized. There was no reason at all for me to doubt my colleague’s intellect or veracity, but on the telephone that day, I said, "David, I think you have the wrong Sandra Brown." He assured me that he didn’t, and that, indeed, I would be presented with the ThrillerMaster award at the annual ThrillerFest.

International Thriller Writers was founded only three years ago, but the membership includes dozens of luminaries in this specialized genre. The roster is a Who’s Who of international bestsellers. The two preceding ThrillerMasters are Clive Cussler and James Patterson … which gives you some indication of the heft of the honor, and how appreciative I am to be taking up that baton.

It’s a long way to have come from that card table in the spare bedroom where I eked out my first books on an electronic typewriter, with a bottle of Liquid Paper at my elbow and two toddlers underfoot.

At what point does one call oneself a writer? That was just the first of the many things I was unsure of when I set up that typewriter and bought a ream of HammerMill. For a year or so, I didn’t tell anyone outside my family — and I was particular about the family members I told. I wrote in secret, hiding it like an addiction, knowing that claiming it as a profession would be met with incredulity, incomprehension and, most probably, ridicule.

But I eventually worked up my courage and hung out my shingle, so to speak.

People would have been less surprised if I’d told them I had become an underwater welder, a gravedigger or an exotic dancer. Because those are real jobs. Writing? What is that? How does it work, exactly? Do you sit and stare into near space, waiting to be inspired? If you are, then what? And what happens if you’re never inspired?

Most people couldn’t fathom how one goes about writing fiction for a living, and even though I’ve been doing it for almost 30 years, they still can’t. They can’t accept that I report for duty each day whether I’m inspired or not. They have a "Romancing the Stone"/Joan Wilder image of a fiction writer. I suppose that’s not too far off, but I’ve never blown my nose on a Post-it note.