Writer woes is me for not calling myself a writer for a while. What took me so long? My excuse is life. It seems like my cuckoo aspirations of putting words on paper for money have flown away like a cuckoo bird. After much reflection, I’ve come to some conclusions.
- I’m never gonna be a writer. Rather, I won’t be that idealized version in my head for the past, oh, 25 years. These ebbs and flows of inspiration and drudgery are becoming tiresome. Now that I’m married and have a child, I no longer have the energy. To (mis) quote the great law enforcer and statesman Roger Murtaugh,
- Because I’m too old for this shit, I no longer have the drive, hunger or guts that guys half my age have to pursue their dream as a journalist/author/etc./etc.
- That being said, I believe I can still write. I just can’t make a living out of it.
I may have grown up and grown out of the entrepreneurial artist phase that a fair amount of my friends have found success in that, perhaps, that is not my path to take. Although, I can never really ever rule it out. That’s why I’m here, right now, typing this journal entry that maybe only two or three of my friends will read, but I’m ok with that.
What to do about my writer woes?
So, it’s a hobby of mine, a passion of sorts. I’m hoping that telling myself this will take the pressure off trying to “make it.” Perhaps if I write enough, run into the right people, make connections, continually push this site, write some more, get some readers and feedback, use that feedback to write some more, get some clout to finally have some motivation to create valuable (monetized) content and perpetuate that cycle over and over until I’m a halfway marketable writer.
Or, I just continue writing like nobody’s reading. In the meantime, I gotta find ways to feed and clothe my family.