On more than one occasion, folks who have read my stuff have flattered me by asking why I do not write professionally.
It may look easy, but real writing is much harder than going into an office, sitting in a cube, researching entity relationship diagrams, analyzing database attributes, designing user reports and pretending that the boss in an intelligent person who does not deserve a twice daily bitch-slapping.
Also, it is virtually impossible to make a living as a writer (Fewer than 20% of "professional" fiction writers manage to make more than $20k per year from their writing). The exception is writing marketing ad copy for Publisher’s Clearinghouse - which can be very remunerative.
So, I prefer the relative anonymity of the web log, where I am the sole editor and publisher, where I can say almost anything I want without getting fired or poked in the nose.
I am not disciplined enough to get any work done unless my workplace is in a place where someone is watching me. If I am "working at home" I inevitably become distracted by the radio, the cat, the desperate housewives in the neighborhood, a yard that needs work, peeling paint, a falling down fence, the phone, noise from the building project down the street, Jehovah’s Witnesses – you name it. If I need to look-up a word in the thesaurus I often spend hours searching for the bon mot.
I cannot meet deadlines. My energy to write usually lasts about the time it takes to consume two Sierra Nevada’s. Then I nap.
Writing as a job has no allure for me. As soon as I begin to think of it as work - i.e. doing what someone else tells you to do - I find it tedious.
Writing is much harder than rocket science. Think about it. Rocket science is simply applying known laws of physics. Make accurate detailed calculations and presto you've got a man on the moon. On the other hand, writing a humorous piece starts with a blank page, a half-baked idea, a literary license and some grammatical rules that would curl your hair. You write a draft. You rewrite the piece four of five times. Finally, you just give-up on it and call it done. Now, if you show it to someone, they feel perfectly comfortable criticizing your work. Some people even get-off on it. (e.g., "That last piece on midgets was not as funny as the one on hunting accidents.") Perhaps I am too thin-skinned to be a professional writer. But you don't see these dolts going around pretending they know something about rocket science.
I do not seek fame. The downside of fame is that it makes you an easy target.
Who needs it? During my last under-employed period (1989), when the local newspaper would publish my essays, I often felt like a minor celebrity, when someone would recognize me in the supermarket (often to say how much they liked the midget piece but that I should do more on wildlife sightings in the police notes). One fan even said I was better and funnier than Dave Barry (thanks, Mom).
After one not-so-humorous piece lampooning the pro-life demonstrator tactics at clinics, I got phone calls from a pro-life lady who quoted scripture and urged me to do more research. My wife got freaked-out at this veiled attempt at intimidation and she made me promise not to write about touchy subjects in the future. That nipped my career as a famous opinionator of current news events in the bud.
The other day I was metaphorically pulled over by a word police officer for failing to properly punctuate a sentence. Instead of a full period stop, I had typed a comma. Then he cited me for a dangling participle and writing while under the influence of my muse and malt beverages.
"I'm innocent, I tell you," I told him. "I've only had two Sierra Nevada's. OK, I did split an infinitive back there a few paragraphs ago, but I have a license that allows me to violate certain rules of grammar."
The officer sneered, “Where’d you get your license – Sears?”
Ok, time for my nap.
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