I mean, no one ever talks about “The Stockbroking Life,” or “The Grocery-Bagging Life.” There’s even this idea that The Writing Life (always capitalized!) should be somehow glamorous and filled with riches. Even my sister Contemporary Romance Cafe writers who’ve posted on the theme so far this month – nothing against you, Reese and Jana – talk about how it’s not at all like that.
What I wonder is – why do so many think it will be?
Everybody dreams big, sure. The young woman who moves to Hollywood plans on being Charlize Theron, not a bit part player with a waitressing job. The high school quarterback with the promising college draft options hopes to play pro-football someday, not graduate with a free degree in accounting. So, of course we all dream about being Nora Roberts or JK Rowling. That’s natural hopefulness.
Yet, with writers, we want – even expect – more than that.
When I first decided to be a writer, a friend gave me a book (that I won’t name) by a Famous Writer, that included all sorts of meditations on Being a Writer. Naturally these were not musings on the agony of pounding out word count to meet a deadline while fighting the certainty that every single one of those words sucks beyond imagining. Nor were they about publishers refusing to return rights, or editors who went on maternity leave, never to return, orphaning series that then got kicked to the curb. No, these were lovely, light-filled essays about watching the sky change colors or daily revisting the same spot on a morning walk to meticulously detail the changes in a cocoon found there.
Perhaps it’s a poetic view, this idea of living the Life of the Mind, of long walks and longer afternoons spent on the lawn at some country manor, scratching away a story that will change the world.
Probably long after our deaths, but that’s no never mind.
From this screed the alert reader will detect that I am not immune to these fantasies. I love all of these ideas, though by no means do I live them. This morning my hubs went to sit at a high table we set up on the east side of the house, to drink his coffee in the morning sun. I thought about joining him. I wanted to. It sounded lovely, really. I even contemplated grabbing one of the plethora of romantic paper journals I own – delightful for their handmade paper and beautifully embossed covers – and taking it with my coffee, to maybe brainstorm ideas for the novel I’m writing. But I didn’t do any of these things, because I know if I don’t get in 1,000 words by a certain time in the morning, the chances I’ll make my word count goal for the day go down drastically.
I don’t know why this is. It just is.
So, no – I didn’t go sit in the sun and make notes in my journal. Nor did I take a long walk to revisit the same spot daily, nor did I while away the afternoon on the lawn drinking tea while my companions played croquet.
Like my fellow writers, I put in the work. Like my fellow stockbrokers and grocery baggers, I worked at my job. It’s a great job and I love it – don’t get me wrong! But it IS a job. There are wonderful aspects to it and, like any job, irritating and even agonizing parts.
In the end, the writer’s life is, well, just life. We all do the best we can. We find joy where we seek it, count our blessings and hope they’ll outweigh the sorrows.
And if you can make a living doing something you love, all the better.