I woke up this morning already feeling like shit, running on four hours of sleep and desperately in need of coffee. Luckily I had no thermos with which to hold the coffee as I made the hour long trip back home and so I went dry. Six hours later I'm on my way back to muncie, new prescriptions from the allergist in one hand and feeling like I might pass out at any moment. All I wanted was to come home to her.
Luckily for me again she was already at work when I made it back.
I've been trying to get something put down on paper for one of the ten or twelve book ideas I've had. It seems like each time I start I am assaulted by voices I'm all to familiar with. This is not uncommon when trying to creatively do anything, but any more it seems that I give up instead of plodding on.
I've written 45 pages about penguins who go to war. WTF?
Being a creative writer means looking ahead to a bright future of wondering just when the hell you are going to do anything about your life. My friends are business majors, teaching majors, english majors studying literature, web designers and film students. When they look ahead it is to internships and grad school, salaries and nice places. I see bus passes and super sweet food stamps. This is not the reality of it, not really, but being into art means that you can never quite place your finger on what it is you are going to live like in ten years. You could have hit it big and be eating on a regular basis or you could be sitting at home with your thumb wedged tightly into your ass for warmth. Either of these scenarios are acceptable behavior for anyone under the 'art' umbrella.
I suppose the question I've been pissing around instead of on is this: What is it going to take for me to start writing in a way that secures a future?
I leave that for you to consider, mostly because I don't know the answer and I'm hoping you do. Please? Seriously.
Don't leave me hanging here, oh my brothers.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
1 comment:
You shouldn't worry about the future so much.
You shouldn't write for a living either.
We write because there's something wrong with us--something from all these other words we've read, they fill up our heads and hearts and before we know it, accidentally--
We have something to say.
But it's not all or nothing. That's the thing. The starving artist is one way to go, but then again, surround yourself only with other artists, lose touch with the world, lose touch with inspiration.
There's no reason you can't have another career and write. In some instances, for some authors, it's opened up worlds that they wouldn't have known about before.
It's just a thought. Over at Anthropolowhat, we're contemplating the exact issue you're dealing with here. Maybe it's worth being a writer, maybe it's not.
I can't tell you but I can say this--if you're willing to admit your a writer--something I would never do in public--then I have great respect for you.
For me, it's still something that's hidden, a burden, a shame.
Wish I could be of more help.
Post a Comment