Other People's Shoes, or The Writer's Complaint

It ticks me off when someone who earns a comfortable living as a writer complains about it. Oh, I’ve got three columns to write this week! Woe is me. Sure wish I was a bag boy at the local supermarket. Then this author goes out and buys a new car, or a new laptop, or what have you and never seems to worry much about the coming bills.

I would absolutely LOVE to earn my living—any kind of a living—as a writer. It galls me to see folks earn their living doing what they love (or maybe more what I'd love) and bitching about it. As opposed to us regular old folk, who have to toil away in whatever we’re handed, who get hung up by trying to do our job well, our hours pulled from us to do something we never intended to make a living at. At times, I’m appreciated where I work. But it takes every moment and exhausts me, physically and mentally, so I’ve got no time and no strength for shopping manuscripts to agents--or even finding an agent.

I’m sure the author in question, who’s a talented, intelligent and perceptive guy, would be caught off guard by my reaction to his complaint. But, after reading, he’d write some depressive piece about how he never gets to complain about anything, he has no right, etc, etc. Perhaps his complaint about mine is more justified than mine about his; I’m sure he got to where he is by hard work, and no magic fairy came down and said “Bazooks! You’re a writer now.”

The grass is always greener, I suppose, and one’s own shoes never feel as good as someone else’s appear to feel. It’s all moot anyway, no way is this blog even read by anyone, much less the famous.

Still, I love the guy’s work, and read it every chance I get, and have a number of his books. Maybe he’d love my work too, but seems unlikely he’ll ever read it.