Life is hard. I’m not just talking about working 40 hours a week for unclear gains, maybe they even have dubious moral value for you, I don’t know, but even without that, children with needs, nominally adult people with needs, pets, etc. It’s a lot to keep up with when I just want to be an artist. My idea of being an artist is not caring about my body odor or whether or not my sheets get washed. Food magically appears. Fairies make my bed. Bluebirds come to my open French Doors and take my silk shirt to the dry cleaners, and I just sit at my computer and compose brilliant prose. Isn’t that the dream?
It sounds nice. I haven’t had that experience, but theoretically, it sounds great.
Writing is expensive. Not the actual act of writing, but anyone who tells you that the training that goes into being a writer doesn’t cost anything is full of you-know-what. It takes time if nothing else, and that means time that could be spent climbing the corporate ladder, working an entry-level job, slinging lattés, flirting with billionaires, who knows?
While I’m not a fan of McKee On Story, I have to admit that yes, it’s a realistic plan that you will write 1,000 words to every 5,000 you read if you actually expect anyone to voluntarily read your work. That takes time. Fast readers can finish an average-length novel in three days if they don’t have kids who want to be fed, a spouse who needs help with papercuts, and cats who vomit on the floor. Basically, this means nobody can read a novel in three days. It usually takes about a week, and the publishing industry absolutely has the irrational expectation that we’re all spinsters without pets. We also all feed ourselves intravenously, I guess.
All of this goes to say, yes, I understand why so many writers at some point choose to at least try to take a year or two off to dedicate to their writing. I don’t think that’s a universally bad idea. I do think it needs to be planned. Let’s start with the basic concept of a sabbatical. If you want to spend a year or two not working, save for that year or two. Not easy, but it’s a step. The other piece is figuring out who takes care of your house and anyone else who doesn’t seem to know how to clean a toilet.
It sounds nice. I haven’t had that experience, but theoretically, it sounds great.
Writing is expensive. Not the actual act of writing, but anyone who tells you that the training that goes into being a writer doesn’t cost anything is full of you-know-what. It takes time if nothing else, and that means time that could be spent climbing the corporate ladder, working an entry-level job, slinging lattés, flirting with billionaires, who knows?
While I’m not a fan of McKee On Story, I have to admit that yes, it’s a realistic plan that you will write 1,000 words to every 5,000 you read if you actually expect anyone to voluntarily read your work. That takes time. Fast readers can finish an average-length novel in three days if they don’t have kids who want to be fed, a spouse who needs help with papercuts, and cats who vomit on the floor. Basically, this means nobody can read a novel in three days. It usually takes about a week, and the publishing industry absolutely has the irrational expectation that we’re all spinsters without pets. We also all feed ourselves intravenously, I guess.
All of this goes to say, yes, I understand why so many writers at some point choose to at least try to take a year or two off to dedicate to their writing. I don’t think that’s a universally bad idea. I do think it needs to be planned. Let’s start with the basic concept of a sabbatical. If you want to spend a year or two not working, save for that year or two. Not easy, but it’s a step. The other piece is figuring out who takes care of your house and anyone else who doesn’t seem to know how to clean a toilet.