When I’ve gotten into a fight with my siblings over money, or sometimes just in casual conversations, someone who has never written a book will mention that they could. Or should. Or would. Or something.
And I always want to say, “I’m sure you could, but you haven’t.” I’m not talking about getting published – that’s business – I’m talking about having an idea for a book and sitting down and writing it.
One of the things a lot of writers will agree with me on (I think) is that so much of writing is about not doing anything. I often joke with Betty that my personality is much better suited to be putting caps on bottles; I’d leave work satisfied every day that I’d done my job. Or maybe overseeing batches of wedding invitations printed and beribboned and mailed. I like projects like that; they’re very satisfying to my anal retentive self.
But writing is so not satisfying. First of all, it looks to most people like you don’t DO anything. Betty, for instance, has learned not to interrupt me when I’m staring at the wall, because it means the writer thing is happening somewhere in the recesses of my brain, and I have to keep still to channel the message, as it were. Or to translate it. Or whatever that process is.
The reason I think most people don’t write books – even when they intend to – is that you don’t feel like you’re doing anything when you’re writing. You feel like you’re talking to yourself, mostly. If you can address the issue of why on earth anyone cares what you think – that is, if you’ve got a big enough ego to just slide right by that one – then the next question is why you’d put so much time into something that people consume so quickly.
I’m not going to divide what I made on MHB for the two years I wrote, reviewed, and promoted it. I’m not. & I’m definitely not going to think about what that ends up in hourly wages.
Which would be the other reason practical types like my brother never sit down & write that book they know they could write.
Right. Back to bottlecaps.