*slides glass of whiskey over* There. That one’s on the house. Fact: writers drink. Every writer drinks. Total boozemonkeys to the last. Sure, you say, “But I don’t drink,” except, you probably do. You don’t drink, then you might not be a real writer. Being a real writer isn’t about how much you write in a day or how many books you’ve published. It’s about how big your liver is.
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An alternate title for this post might be, “Things I Think About Writing,” which is to say, these are random beliefs I hold about what it takes to be a writer. I hesitate to say that any of this is exactly Zen, but it certainly favors a sharper, shorter style than the blathering wordsplosions I tend to rely on in my day-to-day writing posts.
Man, since doing away with a regular edition of Painting With Shotguns (originally mistyped as “Painting With Shoguns,” which is my cable access show wherein I learn how to paint from an ancient Japanese shogun who has been displaced in the timestream), I no longer get to just barf up a bunch of Internet links into your lap.
You do this writing thing day in, day out, you start to feel a little nuts. The rejections. The fictions. The criticisms. Endless words. Myriad characters. So much time. And so I give unto you: coping mechanisms. Do as I say. Do not deviate, lest you be struck down by your own lunacy.
I figure instead of hopping around the forums and comment threads and pollinating them with my opinion-dust, I’d just hunker down here and rattle off some further thoughts and responses. Let’s slap on some hip waders and ease into the swamp.
See, you’re over there thinking that being a writer is one big giant sack of squirming misery. 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.
