I wish I could count the number of times well-meaning people (well, mostly well-meaning) have done the following: - Handed me a magazine or newspaper article about how few writers actually make a living at writing.
- Smiled patronizingly and gushed "Oh, that’s so noble! Especially when it’s so hard to make a living at it!"
- Shaken their heads and said "There’s so many books out there. I've never met any writers. What makes you think you’re any good?"
I get this last from people who’ve never read a thing I’ve written. Their thinking seems to run thusly: Writers are serious, lofty types who don’t live anywhere around here. No one really knows them, except other lofty people who don’t live around here. You live around here, therefore, you can’t be a writer.
The Bretton Katt Alliance has been out for nearly a year now. I must confess it’s not exactly burning up any sales records, either for self-published books or books put out by major houses. I sell a copy this week, two the next. But the response from those few readers has been positive; they ask about the sequel, which gives me some small incentive to keep writing. The small incentive is important, because without it I might feel the urge to stop writing. And no writer can do that, whether you sell ten copies of your book or ten million.
Nobody writes to get rich, or even to pay the bills. (Dr. Johnson was in jest). It’s probably easier to bag a rich spouse-an option not open to me. People who write seriously do it because they can’t stop.
A few years ago, I was foolish enough to listen to people who kept hammering away at me about the pitfalls of the writing life. At that point most of the Lorrondons’ history was still in my head or in very jumbled notes. So I stopped writing and took a course in office management through the local community college. It was a good course, and I did learn some things-no schooling is ever wasted. But in trying to remake myself into something I wasn’t, I triggered a depressive episode that lasted for four years. It wasn’t until I began writing again that I finally pulled out of it. In another year I had the first complete draft of The Bretton Katt Alliance. Now I have the third book in the series close to completion.
I can no more stop writing than I can stop breathing. Writers always give this answer because it’s the only answer we can give. There is no scientific or practical explanation. By some weird cosmic joke, it’s just who we are.
Tags:
bad advice, depression, the bretton katt alliance, writing
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