09 January 2012

Becoming a writer is not a fast track to riches, fame, and all the glitter to be held between the two.  Most people think otherwise.  But, for every writer who makes it to the top of the pile there are about a thousand more who scrape by paying their dues just to have the job.

When I started out, I made nothing.  I worked, wrote, and focused on getting through high school then college.  Still, I plugged away, getting published wherever I could.  Usually, that meant non-paying poetry markets, short stories, or essays.  My mistake, however, was not keeping a pen name with any true loyalty (privacy was the greatest luxury back then) and not keeping track of when and where the pieces went.  A few of the contributor copies are in storage, in another state.

Anyway, when people ask what I do, their eyes go wide and comment about how well I must do or famous I must be.  To be honest, it is rather odd, being on the receiving end of gawking.  The fun comes later, when they bring up the money one could make being a best-seller.  At which point, I kindly smile and explain to them that that is not the norm.  Most of of writer folk make too little or just enough.  In fact, for a month's worth of work here, 1-2 short stories -- when they are picked up -- can bring in $20-100.  All depends on if/when they are accepted (the market can be fickle) and where.

So, for me, the income is not high in that style of writing.  Some others could make it more lucrative, but not by much.  Writing is a work of self and soul.  We do it because we love it.  And because it is what we do, deep inside, not simply killing time.  Labor of love comes to mind, though it has a much deeper seat.

When I am asked why I did it.  Why waste my time on something so utterly worthless (a bad corner performer makes more)?  I smile and let them wonder.  But honestly, I write because I would never want to do anything else.  My characters are my pride and joys.  The lives they live, the emotions they feel, they are as true to reality as you and I.  Giving them that chance to live and breathe is beyond the words that fill the page.

I would do it for free -- have . . . and do.  Once while working in a movie theater, I wrote half a novel on the folded sections of brown paper towels I could tear from the roll.  Was a sequel.  Actually, I wrote two sequels that way.  If that is not an example of the writer's heart, I don't know what is.  But, that is what and why we do what we do.

Well, at least for this writer.