Two years ago, I promised myself I'd never, ever, ever even consider writing another book. For those who haven't given it a shot, the Writer's Life bears more than a passing similarity to, oh I don't know, let's say the lifestyle of your average Roman slave boat rower. Actually, those guys probably had better benefits. Anyway, after 5 years of escalating poverty and diminishing self-esteem, I decided to chuck the whole thing and get into advertising. Here's my thought process: if I'm going to essentially be writing a bunch of crap for a corporate master (the publisher) anyway, I might as well just be honest about it, become a copywriter, and actually make a liveable wage and do stuff like visit the dentist. In publishing, here's how they get you: you're supposed to be so fucking happy and overwhelmed by the mythical chance to be published, that nobody feels the need to actually pay you or treat you like an employee, which you essentially are. The thrill of seeing my stuff at Barnes and Noble, I'll have you know, isn't exactly a substitute for the fact that I could barely afford to eat. When I say that my editor's lowest assistant, the kid right out of college with the most entry level of publishing jobs, was pulling down about 5 times what I'd get to write a book, I'm not exagerating. It's dreadful. But again, the romanticism of writing is supposedly satisfying enough. Yeah, right. Really, I was adamant: never again.
So, of course now I'm in the midst of shopping another book. Why the turnaround? A year and a half in advertising, that's why. Yeah, I can pay my rent and eat now...but, um, I work in advertising. It's DREADFUL. It's like the lowest common denominator every single day, nonstop. It's selling shit. That's it. That's the whole job. There's nothing else. Sell a bunch of shit, go home. Yeah, I realize there's a commercial aspect to all art/creative endeavors/etc. I mean, yeah I wanted my books to sell. I wanted to make a ton of money and all that. But there was still some sense of a greater good. It wasn't 100% rank consumerism masquerading as creativity. Which is what this is.
ANYWAY, this isn't my anti-advertising screed. This is merely a lament for how freaking long it takes to find out if you're even going to get the opportunity to return to the miserable life of writing a book. It's like, I know I hate it. I know I don't want to do it. And yet: I'm on pins and needles like I'm waiting for the hot girl in high school to return my phone call or something. It's crazy. I finished the book proposal two months ago, and since then I haven't been able to do a single goddamn productive thing, cause I'm too busy staring at a) my Inbox, b) my cell phone and c) my office phone for 8 or 9 hours a day. I can't concentrate. I can't have fun. I can't prepare for anything more than a day in the future, cause I'm hanging on to this ridiculous "oh, my life might totally change tomorrow" fantasy. And I'm hoping fervently that it happens. Why? Um, I kind of have no idea.
Ah, the Writer's Life. It's fantastic!
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