In which I admit I am a poser

I’ve been thinking a lot about life as a “real writer”. And not the fantasy anymore. Rather, the parts I know to be real.

  1. A schedule that is more or less my own (less the schedule for son, wife, promotion commitments, etc.)
  2. I can wear what I want, less the occasional wedding and, if god smiles on me, award acceptance or L.A. area movie studio interview
  3. I can tell people I’m a writer
  4. I can hang out with other writers
  5. I may get free books
  6. I may get free books before other people can even pay for them

Am I slime for really wanting all that? I don’t suppose I really care. I get a little nervous when I realize I am looking forward to these perks, like maybe I’m writing for the wrong reasons. But having seriously worked on my stuff for three months now, I don’t think that is the case. I’m not in it for the money (there is none to be had). I’m not in it for the fame (there is none to be had). I’m going to keep writing, even if I never sell, forever. And just because I’d like a few nice things to happen to me doesn’t make me a bad person.

And if you think it does, f*** you. (Once I am established, count on the censored cursing to stop. I’m timid until I sell out).

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