Writing fiction is not a rich man’s game. Though some authors are able to attain and sustain luxury by writing novels, that club is quite exclusive. In fact, most of the authors whose books you see even in national bookstore chains (Barnes & Noble, Borders, etc.) have day jobs. Fiction is usually a supplement their better life decisions.
Did you know Jim Lehrer has published 17 novels? No, you didn’t. John Lithgow, Alan Arkin, Jimmy Buffet, Wes Craven, and so many others also wrote fiction. But they were smart enough to go to celebrity school instead of author college.
But, fiction writing is not without its fringe benefits. Here’s a few I’ve discovered:
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- I change into my pajamas at around 5:00pm, not out of laziness, but as a mimetic character channeling method. It’s entirely coincidental that I write about lazy characters.
- Nobody expects me to be socially comfortable. Conversely, I can fart in public, and people simply assume I am expressing my angst at society or government or foreigners or something, and that I will eviscerate these areas of contention in fiction.
- Despite the relatively few people who read (or perhaps because of it), fiction writers carry an aurora of mystery and sexiness. But because writers are socially awkward (see point above), I am not expected to validate that illusion. It’s like having cake and eating it, too…in front of people who don’t read.
- Drinking counts as career advancement.
- In most cities there is at least one person willing to buy me a drink. I reciprocate, because I’m a swell guy, but usually I match their top-shelf with well. I can do that; remember, I am socially awkward.
- When I scribble on napkins, voyeurs tend to assume I am capturing literary greatness. The fact is, when drawing boobies, the porous napkin paper pretty much draws the areola veins for me.
- Some writers complain about people always approaching them with “surefire bestseller ideas.” I pretend to be upset. Then I steal their ideas. So far, no bestsellers among them. No, Ronald, the Mormon werewolf idea didn’t pan out…wait, dammit Stephenie Meyer!
- Writing a list of lies for a blog post technically counts as story, as long as there is a narrative arc. So, that lazy character I mentioned in point #1, he grew up wealthy, but now he has cancer, and a violent mother, and his estranged wife doesn’t let him see his kids. He’s probably dead, too. Or his he? Dah Dah Daaahhhhhhhh…
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Well put. I should tell more people I’m a writer. I’d get away with a lot more.
ADJ
does napkin paper really work that well for boobies?
And the good thing about being a blogger is you can get away with any kind of typo.
@Rob – honestly, the boobies do end up looking a bit, shall I say, geriatric.
@Mlaz – whut tipeos?
I demand you write a companion blog post about the negative side-effects of writing fiction as well. Like, I dunno, having to sift through all those deifying blog comments from your many fans. Or the spawning of evil alter egos like one Jaleb Cross.
@Gordon – Demand challenge accepted. Consider it forthcoming.