“Writing is not gonna pay the bills,” my cousin, a writer who quit her day job, said yesterday.
“I know,” I said.
I had a creative writing teacher in high school who gave me virtually all of the best advice I’ve ever received. “Write one stupid love story,” he said once, near the end of his career, “and you’ll get a check for the rest of your life.”
Every time I’ve tried to write a stupid love story, it’s ended up long and complicated and full of ghosts or aliens or colonialism or something.
I just want someone to read my work. I want someone to pick it up and smell it. I want them to leave a review on amazon that says, “a joy to read.” and that’s it.
I’m reaching the point of impatience I used to reach quicker, where I give up on publishing in the traditional sense and decide I’ll just do the Whole Thing myself. Then I partner with artists and aspiring publishers and graphic designers and I throw a tantrum when, with all these people combined, I still have to do something besides write the thing, which seems like enough work already.
So my first answer is: all those people, maybe it’ll work this time.
I’m not supposed to go with my first thought, tho. I learned that in rehab.
So next thought: publishers! Maybe if they have to listen to me, it’ll work!
Second thought doesn’t seem great either.
So the truth of the matter is, Mr. Williams. I think he’s dead. There are better options if we’re choosing dead people. I have a dead mom. But lets let her rest. I’ll chose Mr. Williams.
What do I do now, dude?
Leave a comment