I used to have the writer fantasy. Now I am dealing with the aftermath of that fantasy.
The aftermath of a writer fantasy: That is the subject for a whole different blog post – a whole blog – a whole book – a whole series of books …and I’ll not get into it now. The reality that the ‘being a writer’ thing – being a professional writer …ain’t gonna happen prolly…that’s what I’m talkin about here.
The idea of being a guy who sits around in front of a typewriter awaiting inspiration, awaiting checks from editors or publishers…the idea of being a ‘starving artist’ …the idea of being Jack Kerouac or John Steinbeck or Ernest Hemingway or ….Hunter Thompson…this idea is gone gone gone.
I’m just a guy who occasionally likes to write…like as a hobby …as a form of therapy …writing as a nervous habit…writing as a way to occupy idle hands — that’s me. I work jobs, real jobs (sort of real). Nobody is paying me to write stuff. It is highly probably that nobody ever will. That does not stop me from writing though — so maybe I am writing for the ‘right reasons’ …for me…or not even for me…writing for the sake of writing…