wednes | Writing, and falling ass-backward into it.

For the second time in a few weeks, someone has commented on how neat it is that "the whole writing thing happened" to me. The first time it happened, I was too perplexed to ask a follow up question. The next time, I was prepared--almost excited that someone else had said this same weird thing to me.

"What do you mean?" I inquired, "Which part do you think happened to me?" They responded that they didn't really know, because they don't know how all that writing stuff works.

Well, let me tell you. It begins simply enough, by writing (presuming you are already fluent in the reading and writing of your native language). I was trying to write stories before I even know how to string letters into words. I'd just print rows and rows of letters and say they were stories, because even before I knew what a silent E was, I knew I wanted to write. I read and wrote and read some more...all my life. I observed life and humanity and tried to ask probing questions (at school, asking questions at home was useless). I wrote a ton and did my best to acquire feedback (again, at school). By high school, I'd been thoroughly convinced that I never "get a job as a writer," so I tried to pick out some other things I might like to do. Meh.

I slowly came to learn that you don't get a job as a novelist. You write novels in your spare time from doing whatever you're doing to support yourself. You write and write and revise and rewrite. You learn how to put a packet together, who to send it to and how. You fail, you get denied, you amass many, many rejection letters. You re edit, re evaluate, re submit, and question your talent, skills, abilities, motives, and possible chances of "success" at least daily.

After a few years, you might find a publisher--or if you're REALLY lucky, an agent. Then you get to do MORE editing, revisions, galley reviews. There are press releases and cover designs and acknowledgments (which I am still awful at). Then you get to market the thing--which is where the REAL hard work comes in. This is where you figure out WHY complete strangers should spend their lunch money buying something that didn't cost a nickel to write and isn't about to be made into a major motion picture. Even if your book is awesome, marketing it is HARD--especially when you don't have any damn money.
And that's just about the time you should be finishing up a new manuscript so the whole thing starts over again. This is in addition to any other projects, jobs, family, friends, or life you might have outside of writing. That is, of course, if you don't like TV, movies, video games, reading for pleasure, or cleaning your domicile.

Now, I say this, desperately NOT wanting to sound like another one of these windbag "I worked so hard for everything I have--what's wrong with the rest of you lazy jagoffs???" I loathe the mentality of the harried procrastinator who is suddenly furious that not everyone appears to be working as hard as they are. It's right up there with that middle-class bullshit rambling about how haaaard they've worked and how ashamed everyone should be for not working as hard as them--saying this to people they don't even know, and completely without admitting how many advantages they've had that other people haven't. But I digress...

If you want to be a writer, I've found that doing so really is as "easy" as working your ass of at it, not giving up, and pretending you're a big freakin' deal when in reality--nobody knows who the hell you are. It's as "simple" as writing, editing, and marketing when you'd rather be sleeping, imbibing intoxicants, or watching a zombie movie. Being a writer means writing, not wishing you could write. Being a famous writer means writing something people want to read, and then letting them know about it so they know how much they want to read it.

If you wish you were a writer, you should stand a couple of sharp pencils up under your pillow--lay your weary, empty head down; and go the fuck to sleep where you can DREAM of the writing career you've always wished would um...happen to you.