I've been accused of having too much free time. And, in the late 1990's, that was so true. After grad school, I ended up in a tiny Akron apartment with a string of temp jobs and bills galore to pay off. After I picked up my undergrad degree, I didn't know what I wanted to do with the rest of my existence. In grad school, I still didn't know what I wanted (except maybe to vaporize my grad school with a satellite weapon).
As a wee kid, I was a writing junkie. I loved it so much that I taught myself how to type, so that I could spit out my ideas faster. Clanging an old Underwood typewriter drove my mom crazy at nights. But I misplaced my writing addiction in grad school. It wasn't until those rock-bottom years (say, '96 to '98) that I even considered getting back into writing.
And when I started up again, in my late twenties, my (silly) motive was money. Maybe, I figured, writing could be a full-time gig or a way to make some side cash. But frankly, it's a stupid reason to get into writing fiction of any genre. Selling buggy whips is probably easier than selling fiction. There must be dozens of ways to make a faster buck (like writing nonfiction books about a useful topic).
And you know what? It wouldn't have mattered. I could've been a successful executive with a loving family. I could've been in prison, doing 25-to-life. I could've been a thong salesman with a harpy for a wife, four awful kids, and a pet elk. Whatever I ended up doing after grad school, I'd have ended up writing. To me, saying otherwise is like claiming to be immune to gravity or time.
These days, I've got a pretty good job. The money's nice – more than I need. My colleagues are cool to work with. Seeing as I'm no longer broke, I could settle in and walk away from this silly art . . . [insert laughter].
I've had low points, where I gave it up and tried something else. The problem (no, blessing) is that I always come back to the art. I can't stop. If anything, I've become so focused on writing that I've shut off other avenues in my life . . . which is probably not a good thing. And thus, I work my day job and write during my free time.
'Cause I'm a writing junkie again, as I was supposed to be. As I was born to be.
It's a long, lonely, thrilling ride. But it can be done. Just be patient, mind your health, keep honing your writing chops, and get your stuff published before you die. One of my deepest fears is to die before I publish, with all of my written works ending up in a landfill.
Wanna know what that fear feels like? Pull up any unpublished lit you've ever written and read it over. Marvel at how good it is and the potential you've shown in writing it. Please, I'm begging you: don't let it end up lost and unknown. Polish it up and get it out there. That's what writers do.
So let me end by saying that need/greed might be a decent catalyst to enter the writing game: but it won't sustain you. If you can walk away from this and make a faster (probably larger) buck doing something else, then do it. If you want – no, need – to get your work out there, you're probably a junkie too.
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