Getting Dragged Down the Boulevard of Other People’s Broken Dreams

I have learned that if you tell people you are trying to be published as a fiction writer, you get a lot of remarks. The one that I definitely get is “oh, I always wanted to be a writer.” And occassionally get a longer bit after that: “but I had kids/lived in a stuffy environment/took an arrow to the knee/etc.” Basically, the person is mourning their past, which is fine, but why am I invited to the funeral? Especially from people I hardly know.

I don’t know if it because I work in libraries, have some background in the music business (which is weird for me to say because it’s just weird) but hearing “Oh, I would have been a writer/rocker/whatever” always annoyed me just a little. I think it is because it is self-limiting. And the excuses are extensive. Now, when it comes to the field of the Fine Arts, it is a difficult field. Not as difficult as it used to be back in the 90s because you were super beholden to publishing companies (record and books) picking you up if you wanted anyone to see your stuff besides your cat. Access to production materials (editing or production materials or software) was harder. But it is still tough. Otherwise, I would have less to gripe about.

However, it is a little easier to create and put your work out there. You can upload a draft of your work for the world to see, you can chase after agents and traditional publishers. But a lot of people seem to be stuck at the “writing” part. Like, actually making the work of text.

Lol, wut?

I certainly get that life gets in the way. And if it does, that’s just what it is. However, there is still writing ideas down in your phone (plz eventually transfer to paper or back it up, in a cloud) or something of the like. I have heard people say they need to be in a cozy house with an always-hot cup of coffee on a comfy couch out in the forest. That is how you “be a writer”.

No. I mean, you can do that if you can get your hands on a tent and go out in the wilderness with your journal and pen. But it’s not really necessary. All you need is a paper & pen or a functional keyboard and screen.

Usually, when I hear the whinging, it isn’t usually due to legit “I can’t write because life is specifically in the way via illness, childcare, circumstance” but because it seems to these folks that self rejecting is better than never taking a chance at all.

Then put all those emotions on a random (or not-so-random) person who achieved the mopey wannabe writer dreams (that they long self-rejected) … as if that writer’s accomplishment is the lightning rod reminder to the wannabe’s insecurities and failure.

That random/not-so-random person is usually me.

Dun like it.