Recently, I have been keeping track of where my money goes, and I learned something very frightening. I waste pretty much all of it.
Now, I don’t make that great a living. I’m somewhere above the average teacher and below the average engineer, but I’m nowhere near broke or destitute. Or rather, that is, every month I end up pretty much broke, but it’s not from paying my bills. My rent, debts and utilities represent one third of my monthly income. I have no savings.
That means that two-thirds of the money I make is spent on partying. I love taking trips to cities that I can’t afford, or buying drinks and meals that I can’t afford. I love strip clubs and bars, gambling and loose women. I love living, basically. And I guess that’s how I justify having a straight job instead of forcing myself into the guarantee of poverty that is being a professional freelance writer.
You see, when you write for a living, and you don’t get to write about what you want (which is what writing for a living happens to entail most of the time), then you come to hate your job even more than someone who works in a field for which he or she has little to no passion. Writing, to me, is like playing. Sure, it would be great if I could get paid to play. But if you change the game on me, or worse yet, make me play an entirely different one, I shrug, think to myself, “fuck this” and go find a baseball game to umpire or a girl to pimp. Whatever makes me happy. So, trading in my hours for a handful of dimes just so I can live beats trading in my craft for a handful of nickels just so I can live. Essentially, what I’m saying here is, welcome to my sandbox. These are my toys, and you’re welcome to play with me, but never forget that this is my box. These are my toys. And that’s why I do what I do.
Recently, I had a conversation with PIC writer, Michael Curtiss, a talented writer with absolutely no inclination towards the craft. He just recently found out that he could do this, and hopefully, he’ll be able to find his own sandbox, fill it with toys, and play just a little more often. When writing becomes work, well, fuck it. I mean, that’s not what this is about. Ask Dan Opp, who recently quit writing a column because he felt that the weekly deadlines were taking the enjoyment of writing from him. When this starts to suck, well, there’s nothing worse. When it feels good, well, few of life’s emotions feel better. That’s why we do this. That’s the way writers think.
Now, as I have mentioned many times, I am currently working on a book. And you know what? The damn thing just hasn’t gotten old. I’m still having fun constructing new and bigger sand creatures in the sandbox; and maybe the book will make me money and more than likely it won’t. But that’s not why we do this. We do this because, like drinking, fucking, gambling and fighting, it feels good. And, unlike our other vices, this doesn't cost a thing.
I guess the best way to sum up what I mean is with a snippet from one of my old Creative Writing classes back in college.
Celeste: Would you look over my story, Nathan? I mean, I don’t know if this major is for me. Could you just read this, and like, if you think it sucks, just tell me and I’ll switch to history or something.
Me: Sure, Celeste. Just umm, let me have your phone number and after I finish reading this, we could set up a time to—
Jenny: Wait a minute. Celeste, you can just quit writing?
Celeste: Well, yeah, if I’m not any good at it, then why bother?
Jenny: Nate, can you quit?
Me: Writing?
Jenny: Yeah.
Me: No way, no how.
Jenny: Celeste, if you can quit, you probably should.
Me: Jenny, you cock blocking bitch.
Jenny: Nate, you arrogant slut.
Jenny knew what Celeste and I did not. Everyone knows how to read and write. Not everyone is a writer. That’s the difference between playing in a sandbox and building a sandbox. One is fun. The other is work.
So, if anyone out there is entertaining thoughts of becoming a writer, to them I say: congratulations, by definition, you are not one.
And I wish you the best of luck.