One of many pointless annoyances…

I’m always baffled (and annoyed) by people who want to write a book, but they know next to nothing about books. Who knows? Maybe this is the best way to write. But I still think that knowing something about a bookstore is…I don’t know…a good idea. I mean, some people expect others to be greatly interested in their book, but they themselves have no interest in anyone else’s. There is probably a conversation here about blissful ignorance and knowing nothing and zen, but I’m a big believer in knowing what you’re talking about. Hey, if somebody just wants to write a novel for themselves…then great. Write blindly. Write whatever. Embrace cliches or nonsense. Be happy.

But if you want to write for publication then…well, figure it out. I don’t mean guess what is popular and write that. No! I don’t mean write what you think an agent wants. Always write the story you want to write. I don’t care about the “write what you know” school of thought. I prefer a “write what you’re passionate about” approach. Publication is nice and all (so I hear), but it is not the reason for writing. That said, imagine walking into a bookstore with a few (ok, more than a few) dollars to spend on a book. With that money you could go to a movie, buy lunch, maybe food for your kid, or a shirt on sale or a CD. Maybe you could save the money for bills or for a rainy day. Thousands of reasons exist to NOT buy a book. And then there are thousands of books. Why this one and not that one? And then there is the time spent reading when you could be emailing, blogging, surfing (either kind!), sleeping, watching TV, getting work done, washing dishes, spenind time with family, walking dog, whatever. Why should anyone pick the book of an author who’s not considered them one bit?

I could rant all day about that, but I’ve gone on long enough. If I move on to the pointless worry…why do I spend all this time on writing and art when it makes no money? Oh yes, the art for art’s sake argument? When imagining my life without writing and art, I see a grim picture. My mother ended up getting ECT because she tried to cut art from her life to make her husband and her mother happy. I swore long ago that wasn’t going to be me.

So, writing and art keep me sane, but they drive me crazy. I could get a regular job and make a regular paycheck and stop stressing about the bills. Selling a short story is next to impossible (and either the payment is long in coming or is in copies–can’t pay the phone bill with copies of Glimmer Train!) and I don’t even know how to sell art. I have whacky moments of–maybe I could sell my work to…but the idea ends before I can finish the sentence. And the starving artist cliche is not funny or hip when there is a child involved. I believe a person can follow her dream and be a mother, but food must be put on the table. This probably goes to the problem of striving…but I don’t feel like I strive for much. At least, I don’t strive to buy a house or a big car or a wide screen tv or fancy vacations. I just want to write and pay the bills. No designer clothes or expensive dinners out. I can be happy finding something at Target and eating rice and veggies at home. But I can’t shake the guilt of spening so much time writing and making art when they cost money and make none.

But then I think, oh why even talk about it when it isn’t going to change? This philosophy has always worked for my father. He never talks about anything and you don’t find him whinging on about things. Had he chosen the right career? Had he done a good job as a parent? I can’t imagine these questions ever occurred to him. I think my dad has a Buddhist soul. I never heard him say he should be doing something else. I never heard him judge another person. I never heard him worry about what he had or didn’t have. If something broke or went wrong, he did his best to fix it. If he couldn’t, he shrugged and put it aside.

Oh, enough! It is very likely I don’t know what I’m talking about.