Your calling as a writer mandates certain meaning in, and of, your life. You were never meant to let that calling go to waste. You were meant to find your bliss when you sit down, take out your device, and start to write.
You were never meant to be happy. Happy writers don’t have the depth of empathy that good writers have. And given the mess our lives are in, emotionally, and how you see that manifested in your community or other parts of the world, you have a lot of misery to generate a plethora of timely topics, and timeless ones.
You were meant to be alone. Writers suffer from what I call the Writer’s Vicious Circle of Isolation. The very nature of their calling isolates the writer. It makes the writer awkward and sullen at parties. Writers yearn, unusually more than they’d like to disclose, for love and people and good company; their very inability to turn off their torturous sensitivity, and their lack of refined diplomacy, inhibits relationships. Their given strength drives away what they most yearn for, and makes them isolate and write even more, only to yearn all the more. If they are honest with themselves, they will admit that there is nothing social about writing. They may move many hearts, or many millions of readers, to fall in love with their characters, or, even, the writers themselves. But, nothing in the act, vocation, and fallout of authoring a bestseller, a classic, or anything at all, encourages their truly communing with others.
With that being said, you must adjust to your realization, after your initial dismay, and accept the role as a solitary and competing alpha wolf. It isn’t that you are evil and don’t have high ideals, or even that you lack good, humane, and compassionate intentions. It is that the nature of writing, the nature of the beast, is to hunt. The industry isn’t to blame; it just conforms to the nature of the phenomenon of writing, itself. If the industry can’t turn a quick buck out of you what are you good for? To them, you are essentially a high-class escort–a highly-skilled, highly-valued, and conversational prostitute–in print. I mean, in their point-of-view, why else should books exist at all if not to sell? They may ask, “What is the justification to the existence of your writing? Why are you not, instead, a grocery clerk?” Without the industry, how else can you, the writer, reach the masses? It cuts both ways. Both parties benefit. Yes, you paid a price, but you got what you wanted. So, stop whining.
There is never a good balance to the gold-painted, particle board on which you balance upon a lever, because on the other side sits a circus elephant. It does tricks. And trompe-d’œil, or illusory vision, is its specialty. Often more than not, writers must leave their post and walk over, risking adversity, to do violence to the unfortunate bloated fool of a clown on the other side. Only, we realize, tardily, that it is merely a mirror. And, the weight bearing us down was our reflection. We don’t like ourselves. But we have to deal. It is our lot in life. After our demise, we will be forgotten or celebrated, but we won’t know nor be able to care about it, by then. Meanwhile, our fate is to write. And write we shall. ~V
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