Conceited or naive

Someone asked me if I am so conceited or naive that I believe I can just knock out a novel, see it instantly published, made into a movie or maybe a Netflix series, and then retire wealthy and live on an island. No, I’m pretty sure that’s not the way life works.

Here’s the deal: I enjoy writing. Many days writing is mechanical for me, a chore that I know I have to do. Some days, my brain is so full of ideas that I worry I won’t be able to put them to paper in time before they’re lost forever. When that happens, I wake up early, energized, excited to get to my computer. The pleasure I feel as a story unfolds at my keyboard makes up for the times I sit at the computer for hours trying to catch a single creative thought.

I want to improve my craft. Eventually, I’d like people whose opinion I respect to say I write well. Yes, it would be great to make money. If you tell me you write only for the art, with no eye to what people will pay to read, then you’ll lie about other things too.

I am aware that the process of writing a novel, revising and re-revising the shitty first draft, then finding an agent and everything following that, takes a long time. It may be several years. It may be that agents and publishers eventually decide that our world is messed up enough and my writing will only make it worse. I hope not, but I suppose it’s possible.

Meanwhile, as the gripping saga of Eric, boy novelist, unfolds, I’m finding these blog posts to be a fun writing prompt. There should be enough material here for years of my often-snarky commentary. I hope you enjoy it!

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