I’m tired, as I’m sure you all are, of the free-flowing commentary of, “OMG, you know you’ll be poor, right?” Thank you, I know, seeing as I’m sitting here writing this post, while devouring a potato.
Look, there was a time in human history where those who studied and lived the arts were admired and praised. Praised may be a stretch, but definitely admired. What happened to the want of understanding humanity’s deepest woes and desires, creating magnificent worlds taking you out of your head and into perfect fictional bliss?
The way I see it is this; writing is a labor of love. So what if my winter jacket is tissue thin, I’m in my room writing to my heart’s desire in comfy warmth anyway. Take that society.
One good thing about being a poor writer is it helps counter job dissatisfaction. Many a time I’ve found myself bursting with plot lines and dialogue fueled by terribly terrible times at work. The satisfaction of a potentially productive idea is almost enough to fill your stomach with gratitude. Of course food is nice, but you can train yourself to eat one decent meal a day. I know I have.
Hunger aside, anything worth having is worth starving for. Keep on keeping on, poor writers!