Wish I had a beauty like this again. Photo copyright shordzi (Flickr)
Here’s more on why we write – cause like hell, it can’t be for the money. At least not for most creative writers.
This Guardian (UK) story talks about the dismal situation for novelists in the UK — and I’m sure it’s the same here or possibly worse. I have the assumption that the UK has more readers of things English, which is probably just a prejudice I have that their accent makes them smarter, thus more likely to be readers. I’m probably terribly wrong, and they’re all spending many leisure hours at the pub or the match or whatever it is they do over there when it’s raining.
Though the one thing we know they’re not doing is paying writers. So it’s sad, really, like most creative endeavors, from a monetary standpoint. And likely, getting worse than it’s been for some time.
I suppose the day may come when writers and artists will again look for wealthy patrons, maybe people like App developers in San Francisco, or hedge fund managers on Wall Street, though I suspect that works better for visual artists than for novelists. But who knows — you could auction off the right to have your name be used as a superhero protagonist in a novel series — which could mean immortality or it could mean absolutely nothing.
And that I think is why we persist, at some level. Because “it” could always happen. Your next book, story, part, song, etc., could be the one that takes the world by storm. Money and fame will follow.
But probably it won’t.
So we write because we either enjoy it or because it’s all we know how to do and can’t not write. I suspect that’s the truth for the vast majority of people who choose that lonely, often isolating existence, staring down that empty page.
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