The Glamorous Life *Not*

Sandra's post today, and especially the New York Observer article, "My Book Deal Ruined My Life" she linked to, kinda...irked me. Whoever buys into the fairy tale notion that a writer's life is supposed to be glamorous is an idiot. Sorry, can't sugar-coat it. If you honestly think getting a book deal is like winning the lottery and everything from that moment on will be gumdrops and lollipops, you are an idiot. Writing is a job. Granted, for most writers, it starts off as an unpaid job, but it's a freakin' job nonetheless.

Work implies effort, overcoming obstacles, and - like it or not - a certain amount of crap beyond the individual's control. I don't care what your job is, these things come into play. Office workers contend with weight gain from too much time spent in front of a computer - an issue that writers and graphic artists must contend with. Not enough pay for the effort expended? Yes. Difficulty maintaining friendships and romantic relationships because of time/energy demands of the job? Nothing new there. On the other end of the work spectrum, folks like plumbers, construction workers, and landscapers deal with physical injuries - for those who are self-employed, health insurance is an expensive proposition. Sounds familiar to those of us who are working in the arts, no?

I'm not saying that any of the complaints are false, or lack legitimacy. But really, there's nothing new here. I read about this stuff all the time. It's true. These are real problems. I'm just sick of the whining and the cloak of entitlement that some folks wrap themselves in. Poor, poor writerly dude/dudette. It's so terribly difficult, such a long and arduous path that you must travel. Please, let your angst bleed over your blog posts and comments on forums - I really, really want to hear how your bestest story ever just can't find a home. How all your hard work isn't appreciated. Blah, blah, blah. And then, when you finally land that agent and get that book deal, how you're still trapped in a pit of tortuous despair. Please. I really want to hear all the gory details.

I guess my rambling p0int is this: just because you make up stories for a living (or hope to be able to make a living at it in the future) doesn't mean you avoid all the life stuff that every other working stiff deals with. It doesn't make you special. And blaming the job (or the book deal) for the general life crap is ridiculous. Get over it. Writing is hard work. It's not brain science/rocket science or superduper extraordinary. Either you do it and find a way to manage the work/life issues, or find another job. Is that so hard?!

Okay, I'm done ranting. I know we all bitch sometimes. I certainly do. Then again, I don't blame the writing for it. My worst day at the 'puter is still better than my best day doing just about anything else. It's hard work, but I write because I choose to. And that's nobody's "fault" but my own!

Oh, in other news, the dumb crook who broke into the Raven and into Coyote's studio has been identified. When the cops get around to it, hopefully they'll arrest his dumb ass. It's annoying that they've known who he is for almost a week and that hasn't happened yet. Evidently Mr. Brilliantly Crafty Criminal is not high on their priority list. This does not make me happy, but there's not much I can do about it except wait and hope.

In other (other) news, there's a new writerly podcast out by Brett Battles and Rob Gregory Brown. Their first one is "Character Is King" and you can check it out here. I haven't actually listened to it, but Brett's a damn good writer, so I've got high hopes.

In the meantime, back to writing and massive house cleaning (family's coming to visit next week). Here's wishing you all much in the way of general goodness and nothing in the way of visits from stoopid crinimals.