Rewards? There were supposed to be rewards? Dammit. Now you tell me.
I'm only half joking. Culturally, there's that whole protestant work ethic at play that says the work itself is the reward. Or should be. Granted. I'm not protestant. And it dismays me, when I look around, to notice that I haven't actually allowed myself few meaningful rewards for meeting my goals.
It is true that I really enjoy writing - even when I'm angsting over how much I suck at it. Ask my CPs about that one. I can feel them rolling their eyes at me from here. The reward in the DOING for me is that writing was one of those things I'd always done. It hadn't occurred to me that it would ever be anything more than me telling myself fun stories. Getting to tell my fun stories to other people and actually get paid for it just tickles the heck out of me.
That said, material rewards are tough for me. Living on a boat means having to find somewhere to store said material reward. Preferably someplace where it won't be damaged by moisture or mildew or cats sharpening their claws on it. That means rewards, for me, have to be less tangible.
So I travel.
After my first book was published I got to go to LA to RT. I got to go to NYC for the first time. Now that I've turned in another book, I'm going to a writer's retreat for a week.
I love going places I've never been. I love exploring and trying things I haven't tried. I guess that my reward is experience.