It’s raining. Fat drops meander down the glass windowpane in my office like so many overfed translucent snails. Water puddles in the street forming miniature estuaries where worms tunnel up from drowning liquid seeking refuge across the sidewalk only to die between the smooth beaks of a snacking warbles.
And here I sit in front of my computer belting out another novel.
Writer’s are transport machines. We put words on the page and transport reader’s minds to other places and times. But at what cost to the writer’s psyche?
A great author once said that being a writer is like having homework to do every day for the rest of your life. There is always something; editing, rewriting, better setting details, characterization, etc. Not a day goes by that I don’t spend time working on one of my books or upcoming projects. Tens of thousands of hours spent plotting, pitching, and producing. Sometimes I wonder what I would have done with those hours had I not been a writer?
Perhaps, I would’ve become a great businessman, or politician? Or perhaps, I would have wasted my days sludged in front of a television or video game? Perhaps, I would have become a drunk and one evening met someone other than my wife and ruined my life because of a momentary lapse of judgment?
Unless I can invent a time machine, I’ll never know. My current work-in-progress deals with these kinds of questions. My latest release DROP OUT, deals with the power of love and the importance of enjoying time.
There are social sacrifices all serious writers make. It is the loneliest profession in the world, after all. The saddest however, is the writer who doesn’t hit the grand success they’ve dreamt of and think they have wasted their time pursuing their passion. If you truly enjoy your craft than that enjoyment itself is the reward; not fortune, fame, or recognition. All the sacrifices made are worth it.
To read more about me and my books please check out my blog: ALWAYS WRITING
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http://www.neilostroff.blogspot.com
