So strange.

 

When I was 30 and struggling with my writing I had an epiphany. I realized that, even if I succeeded in publishing more books, it was very likely that the income would be modest at best. I had the examples in front of me of people who had given over the lives to an artistic pursuit without any supplemental income and could see that it hadn't been very lucrative. Most of them were living very frugally, supported by their wives to some extent. And these were the people I considered professional.

It finally dawned on me that even as getting published was long odds, becoming financially successful as a writer was beyond long odds. Daunting odds.  

So given the chance, I bought the store. Admittedly, I thought I could also write. (Queue the image of me sitting at the counter writing my books while taking in money.) 

Oh, the naivety! The store sucked up every bit of energy I had plus. 

Finally, after 28 years, I found Sabrina, who I could trust to take care of the store while I went home and wrote. I thought, maybe one book or two, depending on how things went. Eight years and 22 books later, I finally had my fill of writing.

Because I wasn't depending on it to  live, I was able the write what I wanted to write and when I wanted. I found publishers for most of what I wrote and ended up with good reviews. I made what seems to me a decent amount of money, though nowhere near enough to live on longterm.

Besides, it was important to me that the books had good covers and excellent editing and those two things, plus research travel, soaked up most of the profits, which I don't regret. It was a great experience, I satisfied myself that I could write a book worth reading. 

I came back to the store thinking I would probably get back to writing. Five years later I'm enjoying the store and haven't felt the urge to write. Thing is, for me to write requires all my attention. Every bit of it. As much as liked writing, that one fact keeps me from jumping back in...for now.

I've got a year left in the store, then Linda and I want to do some traveling, and by the time that is done, I'll be a doddering old fool. Or even more of a doddering old fool...

Anyway, what prompted this is going back to my early realization that making a living as a writer would be hard. I have a number of Facebook friends who were full-time writers, many of them I consider to be well-established. And as I noticed when I was 30 years old, most of them are living frugal lives. Some are OK, but others are struggling with things like medical bills, maintenance of homes and vehicles, and so on.

So I think maybe I made the write/right choice. I enjoyed the novels I wrote without the anxiety of making them pay so it was almost completely a pleasant experience.