Writing versus ranching

In 2015, I was driving around a cattle ranch near Flatonia, in Central Texas, while working on a story for Texas Monthly. The owner’s son was giving me a tour of the place. As we pulled under a stand of oak trees to look at some of the herd, he asked me what it was like writing books.

I described the nature of traditional publishing contracts: you devote your life to a project for a period of years, then you try to sell it in hopes it will pay off, but it usually doesn’t. In the process  you sign away about 80 percent of your potential earnings so that a bunch of people who are far less committed to the project can make money off subjective decisions about your work, many of which you won’t agree with. 

He sat stoically and stared out the window for a few moments.

“So, it’s a lot like raising cattle,” he said finally.

“Yes,” I said, “only with more risk, disappointment, sleepless nights, and bloodshed.”

Facebook recently reminded me of the exchange. At the time, I thought I was being clever. As a writer, I’d certainly experienced my share of disappointment and sleepless nights, but the risk associated with what I did was in the writing itself — taking chances with story structure and so forth. (Bloodshed was hyperbole, mostly.)

Now that I look at the process as both a writer and a publisher, I find my assessment more accurate. I take on much more risk as a publisher than I do as a writer. As for disappointment, a writer is disappointed if a book or an article falls flat. For a publisher, disappointment can be costly.

My tour guide that day wasn’t wrong in his initial observation. Ranching is plagued by uncertainties — weather, the health of the animals, commodity prices, feed costs, and the sheer randomness of how the cattle will turn out or be perceived at auction. (That’s why scientists West Texas A&M University are looking to clone cattle from the perfect steak.)

Like writing, you don’t really know how things will turn out, and a lot can go wrong along the way.

Obviously, writing is much less physically demanding, but both professions share something else: the people who do them love what they do. One of the themes I explored in The Big Empty was Trace Malloy’s inability to leave his lifestyle behind, even though logic told him there were better ways to make a living. And, of course, he wrestled with the idea that his son might take up the same line of work — he’s both proud and worried.

Writers are much the same. Given the hundreds of new books published everyday, most of us have much better ways to make a living — in fact, most authors don’t support themselves with their books. But the books keep coming.

Writers write for themselves first, and the need to do that means they will keep publishing books regardless of the economics. Most ranchers I’ve talked with have a similar view. They love the way of life, even though they know it’s hard, risky and financially challenging.

Does any of it make sense? Maybe not, but we’ll keep writing until the cows come home.