Man, last week? I read this post written by some guy? And it was all like, “Blah blah blah, seriously, you don’t want to be a writer because it sucks and I whine a lot.”
What a jerk, am I right? And by “jerk,” I really mean, “cock-waffle.”
You can borrow that, if you like. “Cock-waffle.” It’s all yours. I just made that up. I just wrote that. You know why? Because I’m a writer. And you know what? Being a writer is awesome. Hell, it’s not just awesome. It’s the tits. That’s what all the cool kids are saying, right? “The tits?” Like, “Dang, this McRib sandwich is the tits,” or, “Hoo boy, those Castilian Band poets — in particular, Patrick Hume of Polwarth — were the tits!” I dunno. Sounds right to me.
See, you’re over there thinking that being a writer is one big giant sack of squirming misery. That you’d be better off sticking your pink parts in a rat-trap. That the only way to be a writer is to be a starving, broke, syphilitic lunatic whose flesh is branded with the countless rejections he hath received.
No. Bzzt. Hell no. That guy who wrote that post? He’s just trying to rub out the competition. As someone said, he’s hoping to thin the herd. But don’t you listen to him. Let me invite you into the warm, nougaty embrace of the writer’s life. We will dance on mushroom tops. We will ride giant butterflies across rivers formed of spilling ink. We’ll tickle dragons until they vomit up words of encouragement and wisdom!
Here is why you should really be a writer. Sit back as I fill your head with dreams.
Because You Make Shit Up, And Then People Give You Money
You know what I did today? I wrote about a vampire. And that vampire was being chased by zombies. And someone is going to give me money for it. That is totally absurd. In the world? People are out there doing real work. They’re fitting pipes and jiggering transmissions and manipulating the stock market from secret underwater bunkers. But me? I sit here. I make up insane bullshit. And then someone sends me a check. It’s like getting paid to eat ice cream or invent Rube Goldberg machines. This should be illegal.
Because My House Is My Motherfucking Office
You work in a cubicle farm where they grow gray fuzzy walls. Did you know the fuzz on those walls is not only a sound-dampener, but also a soul-dampener? Pieces of your fleeing soul catch on the fuzzy bits — like clothing caught on rose-thorn — never to return. True scientific fact, that.
I do not work amongst cubicle walls. I have an office where I look out a pair of windows and I see deer frolicking, foxes hunting, and titmice eating. That’s right. I said titmice. Which is not, despite the name, a mouse with human breasts. (But just you wait. Now that Obama loosed stem cells upon the world, we’ll see titted-up mice overrunning our homes and schools before you know it. He’s like Hitler, that Obama.) When I take a break, I don’t go down to the break room. I don’t have to leave the house to eat a shitty fast food lunch. I go into my kitchen. I make eggs. Or get a salad. I play with the dogs. I take an hour to do some exercise. I drink some almond milk (which is so delicious and given half a chance I would have sex with it and hope to have its little milk-babies). I’m a free agent in my own life.
You get “casual day” at work. Where you get to “dress down.”
I get “pantsless day” at work. Which is all day, every day, baby.
Because You’re In Amazing Company
Becoming a writer — like, a hot-dang-I-got-something-published-writer — is joining a club full of kick-ass dudes and ladies. Everywhere you turn, you’re like, “Wow, I met Favorite Writer X,” and “By the milky sweat of Athena’s butt-dimples, is that Favorite Writer Y?” And nine times out of ten, they’re just crazy nice folks. They’ll buy you a drink. You can share a meal. Or some horse tranquilizers.
The small corner of my real-life and social-media world is filled with people that slacken my jaw at every moment. And I am mysteriously allowed in their company.
Like this guy! Or this lady! Or this dude! Or what about him? And what about her? Don’t forget this fella. Or this lass. And that’s just a tiny fraction of the awesome that surrounds me any given day. Sweet Crispy Christ on a Combination Lunch Platter, how is that not exciting?
Because, Did I Mention They’ll Give You Money? And It Doesn’t Suck?
If you can write 1000 words an hour, and you can make five cents per word (a relatively low amount), you make — drum roll please as I quick do some math in my head (carry the one, calculate Pi to the thirty-seventh decimal, get out the Enigma machine) —
Fifty bucks an hour.
Not a lot of jobs:
a) Let you make shit up
b) Let you work without pants
c) Pay you fifty bucks an hour.
I’m sorry, why wouldn’t you want to be a writer again?
Because You Have More Options Now Than You’ve Ever Had
The Internet has changed everything.
I mean, more than just making sure that we have access to the freakiest, dag-nastiest porn available to any member of history across any civilization ever.
Information is truly democratized. It takes nothing to get your story into the hands of an agent or an editor. Or, if you want, skip ’em. You can cut to the chase and get right to an audience with blogs, with Twitter, with Amazon, with Smashwords, etc.etc.
Your writing will reach the gatekeepers faster, or if you so choose, it can kick the gatekeepers in the snacks and run right into the warm embrace of your readership. Your work doesn’t even have to be all that good anymore. It can just — poof! — exist in the world with nary a thought on your part!
Fly free, crappy words! Fly free!
Hell, if you’re a genuinely good writer, you can get out there easy-breezy lemon-squeezy.
Cock-waffle, cock-waffle, cock-waffle, cock-waffle, cock-waffle.
Because The Fucking Snooki Book, That’s Why
Listen. Snooki got a book deal.
And Snooki is, what, some kind of subterranean homunculus that crawled up out of a burbling sewer hole somewhere? Ye gods, if that nuclear CHUD can manage to get a book deal, I’d say you have a pretty good shot. It’s clear they let any mule-kicked chimp write a book, so all you have to do is meet that barest of requirements. I’d put money that you’re a better writer than that big-haired donkey.