On Bad Days…
I am an author.
That much is indisputable. I have published works, I continue to write on a daily basis, and I eye future releases with the equal distribution of mind-numbing terror and over-the-top excitement that can only mean I’m destined for this job. Writing is my Escher, and I am but the humble painting.
Some days, however, I fear too many things outside of my control. I fear that I will never become noteworthy. I fear that I will never become a widespread name. I fear that I shall labor all of my days talking and laughing and preaching to an empty room. I fear those things with the kind of primordial terror that others fear falling, or spiders.
I know, intellectually, that these things are so far beyond my ability to control them that fearing them is laughable at best, and a waste of time at actually. (thank you for that phrase, @mikeyface). That means nothing in the face of reality, however. Humans are, by their very nature, irrational and illogical beings ruled almost exclusively by their emotions. Some of us are able to ascend beyond such failings, with regards to certain emotions or instincts, but for the most part we all live and work and eat and die within the confining walls of our personal state of mind.
On days like these, I feel paralyzed. I feel that nothing I do truly matters, is of import, or will impact my life in a beneficial fashion. I feel like a hamster, desperately trying to outrun the relentless onslaught of time in a hamster wheel. I pump my legs as fast as I possibly can and end up going nowhere. I feel exhausted by the effort, depressed by the outcome, and drained by the whole shebang.
My dad, a long time ago, recognized something innate to my character which I have fought long and hard against, but is something that truly does define me. I am a carrot and stick man. If I have the carrot in front of me, I do a fantastic job of staying on target and motivated. If I can see a tangible reward for my efforts, I will make those efforts count. This is good, in that everything I turn my hand and attentions to becomes something that I turn my whole attention to. If I end up doing something, I do it whole hog and lose myself to its depths.
The downside to this are those situations where I do not see an immediate and tangible reward. Writing is absolutely in this category. New writers are tasked with a mountain of information to absorb, internalize, and turn into habits all while trying to make time to generate new content, which in and of itself requires several more mountains of information which must become second nature. All of this has to be done while juggling a job or familial obligations, or both, because there is something else that is immovable about new writers. You. Will. Make. Nothing.
Nadda. Nil. Zip. Zero. Zilch.
A career in writing is a person paying someone else all the money they can muster to train for a marathon they pay even more money to enter. Further, this marathon might end up quite literally turning them off running FOR THE REST OF THEIR LIFE. In addition, even if they cross the finish line, THERE IS ZERO GUARANTEE THEY ARE FREE FROM HAVING TO DO IT ALL OVER AGAIN, EXACTLY AS THEY DID THE FIRST TIME.
You give everything you have to the pursuit of this career, and there is only a fractional chance of a marginal percent of a miniature hope of writing becoming your full time job. That’s enough money just to pay all the bills. We aren’t even considering those who want to make J. K. Rowling levels of cash. The average published writer pulls down less than I was making with no college degree at my insurance job.
I know I won’t quit. I’m hooked, every bit as addicted as any junkie to his or her drug of choice. It is only the Sisyphean labor I fear. I want assurance that my labor will not be in vain. I want to know that I can make no mistakes, and not fail.
Life, however, doesn’t work like that. All that is left to me is to shove against the boulder lain before me, and hope that this is the time it won’t roll back down the hill.
Boulderfully,
Justin
