This isn’t actually going to be a writing-craft post. This is a post about you doing the thing you need to do.
Some of you may have heard or read in various interviews that when SICK came out, I found it amusing that people kept referring to me “branching out into a new genre.” That’s half-right; I hadn’t published a horror novel before. But the short stories I published before looking for an agent were almost exclusively horror stories. The books and stories I grew up writing were supernatural or horror. Even the first use of the names “Zero” and “Skater” (Mike) were from the inklings of what was meant to be a horror story of some kind. The same is true of Tommy’s chapter of PARTY — way, way, way back — that started as jottings for a horror story.
So horror wasn’t something I was new to as a writer, it was something I was new to as a published author.
When I began rubbing elbows professionally with the likes of Joe Nassise, Michael Stackpole, and other adult genre authors, I started remembering all the novels I wanted to write when I was younger. Tales of mutants and murder, blood and backstabbing. The first novel-length work I ever produced was in eighth grade, a sword-and-sorcery fantasy called Derro the Warrior: The Demon Prince of Nine Hells (which somehow did not get me kicked out of my private Missouri-synod Lutheran school; as a matter of fact, they sent me and Derro to an Arizona State University young author’s conference; the shape of things to come, it turns out).
Joe Nassise extended an offer to me to be included in an e-book collection, A WORLD OF SHADOWS, which would include first-in-series novels. I took the opportunity to write my first adult-genre novella, TILL THE SUN BREAKS DOWN, the first in a planned trilogy and perhaps of a longer series I’ve been thinking, dreaming, and writing about for about two decades or more. (And on that note, I’d love for you to read the Shadows collection or Till the Sun and leave an honest review on Amazon so I know whether to even bother doing this. If you have Kindle Unlimited, the novella is free.)
What’s all this got to do with you? Plenty, my friend. Plenty.
In case you didn’t know, writing fiction doesn’t generally pay a lot. I do have local author friends who are doing quite well with their writing, but the vast majority of us could not live on fiction alone. I supplement with school visits, speaking at conferences, and teaching — all of which I love doing, by the way, so it’s not exactly a grind.
Publishing indie-style can pay more than traditional . . . but most often doesn’t. And that’s okay. I wrote Till the Sun and continue working on the series because I love doing it. This is what I would be doing on Sunday mornings and various evenings after getting home from my copy writing job at some magazine or website where I punched a clock.
I write these stories and share them because to not do it is to die.
In the twenty-two years I spent acting and directing — as well as many side-gigs I’d sooner forget, like my stint as a “sprite” at the Phoenix Zoo — I’ll estimate I made around $3,000. That’s probably generous, but a nice round number. That’s $137 per year. Compare that to the more than $15,000 my wife and I spent on our arts venue over three years, and not counting however much I spent on my first company, Is What It Is Theatre, before we started keep track of such things.
Do I wish I had that money back? Oh, yes. Do I regret spending it? Not for one moment.
Because to not do theatre, at that time, in those places, with those people, was to die.
I’m going to keep preaching this over and over until it works: You have to do that thing that makes you, You. Whatever it is. If balancing checkbooks is your thing, own it. If you’re a stargazer, break that ‘scope out as often as you can. I mean, have you ever looked up an actuary schedule or lifespan calculator and figured out how many years you probably have left? We have this absurd silence about death in this country, and it’s killing us — no irony intended. Look, nobody’s more fearful of shedding this mortal coil than I, and that’s why I write novels about things I want to write about, regardless of the financial or critical outcome.
Bad reviews . . . wait, no. Rude, unthoughtful reviews drive me into steep depressions. (A negative but reasoned review doesn’t bother me at all. In fact, I learn from them and appreciate them.) Steadily shrinking advances from publishers make me panic about things like, I dunno, losing our house. Things like that motivated me to finish my bachelor’s degree last summer, and motivate me to look for graduate programs, because I don’t know how long this incredible ride of mine will last.
But nothing, nothing stops me from writing every week. No, not always every day, but every week? Absolutely.
Awhile back I wrote a journal entry about what my best last day on Earth would look like. Of that hypothetical twenty-four hour period, about two hours of it was dedicated to nothing but being alone with my word processor and pounding out the last written words I’d leave behind.
It’s that important to me.
What is that important to you? What does your best last day look like? I am not a proponent of the “live each day like it’s your last” mentality, because it’s patently absurd. I’m more in favor of going to sleep each night and thinking back, “Is there anything I wish I’d done differently? What would I most like to do tomorrow within my given circumstances?”
Folks, we’re only going around once. Sorry to be the grim reaper. Happy Halloween, amiright? But seriously, as Death says: “You get what anyone gets. You get a lifetime.” It’s yours to spend as you see fit. I don’t know your personal, private circumstances, and I know a lot of you have things on your plate that are overwhelming. I know. But nothing is insurmountable. You deserve a few hours each week to devote to that thing you love. I don’t understand devoting time and life-energy to model trains, but I bet model-train enthusiasts can’t grasp why I spent so much cash on a production of Fahrenheit 451. Fair enough. I don’t regret that production, and he doesn’t regret the addition he put on his house to expand the miniature town for his railroad. You know what I mean?
Don’t listen to anyone else’s plan for your life. Don’t try to publish a book because you want to Have Published A Book. Don’t become a lawyer or doctor because that’s what Daddy Wanted. The world is in so much trouble right now, scaling down is probably in everyone’s best interest. Start a small urban farm. Learn to repair bicycles. Teach yoga. I don’t care, just do the thing that makes you smile from the inside out. You already know what it is. None of this “find your passion” BS, you know. And you know that you know!
Here’s one way you can tell what your “thing” is, if you need a little help: It’s hard work. All the things I love and have loved to do were a pain the ass! Try building a stage in a backyard in Phoenix in July, then tear it down and truck it halfway across town, re-build it, do a show, then tear it down for the week before building it all back up again before 5pm on a Friday. … And I wouldn’t change a thing. Your “thing” is probably not leisurely. It could be, I suppose, but usually it’s something tough on the mind, body, or both.
If you can make a small living at it, like I do, so much the better.
Okay. Sermon over. If you find any of this helpful, let me know. Tweet it, repost it, share it. Leave a comment. Buy a book. Whatever. But do think about this. Really do. Because the more happy people we have walking around, the better for everyone, yeah?
Take care.
