Neil Gaiman\u2019s writing gazebo<\/a>.\u201d I couldn\u2019t follow Harlan Coben on Twitter. I couldn\u2019t email Orson Scott Card.<\/p>\nSource material for insight into the writer’s life was scarce.<\/h3>\n
So my mental picture of the writer\u2019s life was probably similar to one you\u2019ve always held. I envisioned the writer leisurely applying his craft (all writers were male to me, in those early days\u2014when I hadn\u2019t yet matured enough to realize the error). I imagined a large, soft chair before a fair-sized oak desk. I could feel and hear a crackling fire in stone fireplace. I saw inkwells, quills, and nubs, because for some reason writing relied on a Victorian-level technology in my mind. I had a sense of light from paned windows, supplemented by flickering candles, illuminating sheets of parchment upon which the writer jotted thoughts between raising his hand to his chin, gazing out of the window at the green, manicured sprawl of his countryside estate, before plunging back into the writing with sudden inspiration and vigor.<\/p>\n
Hoo boy.<\/p>\n
Later, this vision was replaced\u2014or rather\u00a0altered<\/i>\u2014with an image of that same male writer, now hunched over a typewriter, clacking noisily while a cigarette bobbed between his lips, ash cascading to the desktop like spent thoughts, a bottle of black label whiskey and a half-full highball glass at his elbow.<\/p>\n
Enter the dawn of my discovery of the Pulp Fiction writer, the harried professional who poured every cell of his body and every erg of his soul into the work, to relentlessly\u00a0produce<\/i>\u00a0at a galling speed.<\/p>\n
This seems the most likely origin of the template for the writer\u2019s work ethic that drives me to this day. Though I\u2019m not much of a drinker (I do love a good Scotch, and love even more a good bourbon), I see the Pulp Fiction era as the heaviest influence on me, in terms of writing discipline and productivity. Indeed, I see it as the intellectual sire of the indie author movement. We are the spiritual ancestors of that group of writers who paid for their family\u2019s lives through merciless attacks on the empty page. There is no doubting the similarities.<\/p>\n
It was in the \u201880s and \u201890s that I started to learn more about the authors penning books I loved, and I started to see some patterns. I was starting to discover women\u2014both as an adolescent male and as a being of budding intellect\u2014and as I peeked further behind the curtain of the authors I read, I learned some of their similarities, saw some of the patterns.<\/p>\n
There was a perception, dominant for me at the time, of the author as tragic. The writer\u2019s life was messy, dominated by the existential crisis of a blank page screaming to be filled. That drinking, romanticized in my vision of the Pulp era, was now the release, the escape, the life preserver that desperate authors clung to, even as it weighed some of them down so much that they drowned while thinking they were treading water.<\/p>\n
Writing was still romantic to me, the writing life still felt like the promise of comfort and endless hours of joy, a life answerable to no one. But it was also darker. It had sharp edges. I came to realize that, like finding your father\u2019s loaded pistol in his sock drawer, writing was something you needed to be cautious about touching, you needed to handle with respect. The writer\u2019s life, for the first time, felt a little foreboding.<\/p>\n
By this time I\u2019d had my first taste of writing professionally. Meaning I was writing, and someone was giving me money for it. I was twelve years old when I got paid for my words for the first time. I liked it. And it changed the inflection and tone of my thinking. Writing was a source of income.<\/p>\n
No\u2026 that\u2019s a little too specific. I wasn\u2019t that mature yet.<\/p>\n
It was more like, \u201cWriting is something I do that people find valuable.\u201d If you can pepper mental references to\u00a0Transformers<\/i>\u00a0and\u00a0Indiana Jones<\/i>\u00a0and\u00a0The Real Ghostbusters<\/i>\u00a0into the DNA of that perception, you\u2019ll probably have a decent idea of where my thinking had led me.<\/p>\n
Writing was a way to make people care about what I thought. Enough that they paid me for it, which meant I could buy things that I wanted.<\/p>\n
But here\u2019s where incongruity and cognitive dissonance shaped the way I saw the writer\u2019s life.<\/h3>\n
Because subconsciously I was starting to consider myself a writer, but I wouldn\u2019t really allow myself to lay full claim to that label for many years.<\/p>\n
The reason for that was simple: I didn\u2019t have the \u201cwriter’s life\u201d that I envisioned. Even with the evolution of that vision, even as it had grown and evolved and reshaped itself within me, I couldn\u2019t see any place in it for who I was.<\/p>\n
I was a kid, wearing T-shirts with logos on them, sporting a mullet haircut, living in a South Texas town. Everyone knew that writers wore wrinkled button-downs, had their hair in ponytails, and lived in Manhattan.<\/p>\n
I watched cartoons, drank Yoo-hoo, and climbed trees. Everyone knew that writers watched black-and-white French films, drank Scotch, and climbed fire escape stairs to the roofs of their Greenwich Village apartments.<\/p>\n
No, I wasn\u2019t a writer. I couldn\u2019t be. Those clothes didn\u2019t fit. The smell wasn\u2019t right. I was too happy, and felt too little angst, had too few nihilistic tendencies.<\/p>\n
That attitude may be what shaped my thinking for all those years, the thing that cost me most in terms of time spent building the sort of writing career I have today. I could have started far sooner. I could have written more books, more short stories. I could have entered the race much earlier and been much further along.<\/p>\n
Regret is a harsh mistress, though. We don\u2019t date anymore. We still run into each other at parties.<\/p>\n
The point is, my perception of the writer\u2019s life was so narrow and confining, I didn\u2019t fit within it. And it cost me.<\/h3>\n
It would be years before I realized my error. Years move before I even approached correcting it.<\/p>\n
I spent a large chunk of my life and career writing for a living, but not realizing that\u2019s what I was doing. I spent that time criticizing myself for not \u201cbeing a writer,\u201d and usually being the most critical of myself while I was actually creating a maelstrom of written work for employers and clients. I never caught the irony.<\/p>\n
I fooled myself into believing, stupidly, that I would need to work hard at a job I did not like, spend myself to spiritual poverty on years of unrelated labor, before I could \u201cretire and start writing books.\u201d<\/p>\n
That was my \u201csomeday.\u201d That was my \u201cexit strategy.\u201d<\/p>\n
It wasn\u2019t until I did a stupid thing, a foolish and ridiculous and wonderful thing, that this notion changed. And along with it, my entire perception of the writer’s life.<\/p>\n
It started when I wrote a book, and I sent it to an agent.<\/h3>\n
That book was bought. Money\u2014a lot of money\u2014was given to me, a young twenty-something who hadn\u2019t had much money all at once at any given time in his life. A young man who hadn\u2019t had $5 for gas not long before, who was subsisting on ramen noodles at 10 packs for a quarter, and whatever free condiments he could snag from fast food restaurants.<\/p>\n
Suddenly, upon me, the dream of the writer\u2019s life had been delivered, like a bucket of cool water over my head, on a hot Texas summer day.<\/p>\n
I felt like I\u2019d made it. I celebrated. I spent the money, well ahead of the book\u2019s release, and became the sort of guy who thinks getting a book deal has solved every problem in the universe. I crowed. I strutted. I bragged. I never missed a chance to tell people I was an author.<\/p>\n
And then\u2026 it fell apart.<\/p>\n
The book deal came with strings. I was on the hook for a very large chunk of the marketing, paying out of pocket for any exposure beyond the fairly bland and anemic level of promotion that the publisher offered. I learned for the first time\u2014because I had not really\u00a0read<\/i>\u00a0the contract I had signed\u2014that this good fortune came with some heavy burdens. And I was in no way prepared to bear them.<\/p>\n
I eventually had to admit to myself that I\u2019d screwed up, that this was not my dream coming true, as I\u2019d first thought. And so I did the unthinkable\u2014I bought my way out of the contract. It cost me everything about that book, from the advance I was paid to the rights to publish, for a very long stretch of time. More than that, it cost me the love I had for it, the passion I\u2019d had in writing it, and the courage I\u2019d had in presenting it to the gatekeepers, to ask them if it was worthy.<\/p>\n
That book hasn\u2019t seen the light of day since, and probably never will.<\/p>\n
That was the end. The dream was over.<\/p>\n
I had no idea what good news that series of events would turn out to be.<\/p>\n
Because once the dream was over, so were the illusions of the writer\u2019s life, the foggy photo I held in my head about what that life would be was now shredded and discarded. Which created room for it to be replaced by a new idea\u2014one that would take time to blossom, but the fruit it\u2019s produced is the sweetest I\u2019ve known.<\/p>\n
It was as simple as this:<\/p>\n
The writer’s life isn\u2019t a desk or a typewriter or a bottle of booze. It isn\u2019t a quill or an inkwell. It isn\u2019t long, suffering nights surrounded by crumpled paper and old jazz records, and it isn\u2019t sitting in the utility closet of a trailer home hacking away at a noisy typewriter.<\/p>\n
It\u2019s none of those things.<\/p>\n
And it\u2019s all those things.<\/p>\n
It\u2019s\u00a0everything<\/i>.<\/p>\n
The life you have. The very place where you find yourself. The very worn and beaten laptop you use, the piece of software you cherish, the expensive pen you got for college graduation, the wobbling caf\u00e9 table at Starbucks, the lap desk and iPad, the 3×5 notecards, the voice recorder you dictate into.<\/p>\n
It\u2019s none of that, it\u2019s all of that.<\/p>\n
The writing life is a come-as-you-are party.<\/h3>\n
The stupid thing I did was invest all of my hope in something that wasn\u2019t real. I tried to mold myself into an image that didn\u2019t fit. And when things went bad, they took me with them.<\/p>\n
It was years later before I tried again. And at the time, I wasn\u2019t really trying. I had moved on. Being a writer was just a day job. It wasn\u2019t a dream anymore. Except\u2026<\/p>\n
Except dreams only nap for a while. Dreams don\u2019t ever fully go away. It\u2019s us who go away, until we find ourselves wandering back down old and familiar trails, seeing them for the first time with brand new eyes. The eyes of a new perspective, born from the growth and evolution of our souls.<\/p>\n
I wrote a book to help explain a story that I thought would make a good television series. And when that book was written, it changed me. And when I discovered it could be published, without gatekeepers, under my own power, it changed me again.<\/p>\n
I realized, suddenly, like becoming lucid in a dream, that I had something, all along, that I\u2019d dreamt of, something I only had to realize to make true.<\/p>\n
I had a writer\u2019s life.<\/p>\n
It looked familiar. It looked exactly like my self.<\/p>\n
This is what I want you to take from this post, by the way. I want you to realize that whatever you think of as the writer\u2019s life, it\u2019s probably an illusion. It\u2019s probably just a story. You can use it to inspire yourself. You can even set it as a goal, something to work toward. But you don\u2019t need it as a definition. It isn\u2019t a rule you have to follow.<\/p>\n
You already have the writer\u2019s life. You\u2019ve had it all along.<\/p>\n
It\u2019s always been you.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
In the earliest days of my writing career, before it could even be tagged as a \u201cwriting career,\u201d I had a particular and persistent vision of what the writer’s life looked like. It was informed by television shows and movies, and by snatches of behind-the-scenes glimpses into the lives of the writers I followed and […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":1292,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[469],"tags":[484,58,482,59,483],"table_tags":[],"class_list":["post-1291","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-author-how","tag-author-life","tag-inspiration","tag-lifestyle","tag-mindset","tag-writing-life"],"yoast_head":"\n
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