Mushroom Cynosure

After publishing last night's post, and then looking back over some older posts, I realized that one might get the impression that I think being a full-time writer (that is to say, someone who makes their money entirely from writing, and in particular, writing works of fiction) is a near-impossible feat achievable only by those with wealth and connections. I want to apologize if I have made that impression. I know people who are full-time authors. And I know there are lots of people out there making their livings right now from writing fiction. People who got to where they are through perseverance, skill, and adaptation (although, yes, lots of people leverage their connections in the entertainment industry or use someone else's money to bankroll their work). If I sounded disparaging, it is because I am also talking to my past self when I write these things. I am addressing the person I used to be, and the notions he would carry in that sloppy head of his. Like most people, I bo

Rather than make a protracted post about my failure to write on this blog everyday, or address my last entry, which was rather discouraging and defeatist, I am just going to pick this back up as though nothing unusual happened.  I got a vasectomy a few weeks ago. We are officially one-and-done on the child-rearing front. The reasons are multitude. Firstly, I just don't want to put Whitney through the experience of being pregnant again. She didn't enjoy it, and the actual labor process was scary, difficult, and expensive. I feel like we got pretty damn lucky with our little Nemo. And speaking of money, kids are expensive as shit. People wonder why Millennials aren't having children - might have something to do with the cost of living combined with stagnant wages and our fucked-up, for-profit healthcare system. And last, but not least, we want to give Nemo the best life we can, and contrary to popular belief, only-children generally benefit  in the long run from having more r

Poor little old me, feeling sorry for myself again, feeling like my writing isn't worth a damn.  The truth, of course, is that it ISN'T worth a damn. I was fairly proud of myself when I got that review in Publisher's Weekly. I thought, "Wow, this is really something! This is real validation." And when I found out that I'd sold a 100 copies, I thought, "Hey, not bad!" Not bad for a nothing release from a nobody.  But months later, I'm still a nobody. And those 100 copies...that's it. That's the reward for obsessively writing and re-writing a book. It took me a decade. And my reward is a little royalty money and a pat on the back. Should I be grateful?  But it's not like I put the same effort into promoting the book. Far from it. I've been pretty quiet about it. Sometimes out of shyness and a sense of inadequacy. Other times, out of laziness, or because I was busy.  Hard work. Dedication. Love of the craft. I do not exemplify these