“What the Fuck are you going to do with that?” My father’s answer when I first told him I was going to major in English. To this, my mother answered for me “She’s going to be a teacher.” No, I don’t want to be a teacher. In fact, I REALLY DO NOT want to be a teacher. Nothing against teachers, my mother is one, but I hate kids and explaining things slowly. Ergo, not teacher material.
“Do you realize how hard it is to write?” My grandfather’s answer when I told him I wanted to be a writer. He’s an outdoor columnist in Connecticut. “Go type up just one page of a book and see how many words it takes!” No thanks, Popsie. The only book I’ll be typing up is my own. Or someone else’s if the price is right.
It is hard to be a writer. I’ve been whoring out everything I’ve ever written to craig’s list postings and literary magazines desperate for a chance. My favorite is when they don’t even take the time to reject you. You just have to wait in anguish and turmoil until six weeks have gone by and he still hasn’t called. I mean, they still haven’t e-mailed. It’s all the same, isn’t it?
I’m considering writing an essay begging the reader to publish me, but that’s been done. So, I’ll send out a bottle of wine (everyone in the writing world loves wine) with every submission. The trouble with that is, I have no money. I work for minimum wage sitting in a computer lab at my college and I’ll probably be there for the rest of my life because I can’t get published. And I need to get published to prove I have experience and get a writing/publishing gig. That, or I’ll become a teacher.
No comments:
Post a Comment