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February 19, 2007
This dreadful life: I was in Kinko's the other day, picking up a 24 by 36 inch blow up of the Blood & Volume cover that we'll be using for the book release party, the documentary and other appearances. The guy ringing me out, if I had to guess, was in his mid-fifties and took an immediate interest in the artwork and the book.
He asked a series of increasingly "in the know" questions. Was I self-published or did I have a publisher? Which house? How long did it take me to write the book?
"You're talking to a writer, you know," he said after his inquisition.
A writer who was still chasing the dream, and still making slightly more than minimum wage. Still wearing a uniform to work.
"So are you working on anything at the moment?" I asked after he told me about a book that was "pure pulp" that he and a team of writers had written in 11 days in the 1970's.
"I have a couple of projects I'm working on." But it wasn't too convincing and it had the tone I'm a little too familiar with -- the tone of someone who has some good ideas but between work and family and other commitments, no time to get those ideas off the ground.
In a day in age when companies can outsource contract writing jobs for the price of 10 or 20 words per penny and when even the top glossy magazines are still paying the same per-word rate they paid 40 years ago, writing doesn't always seem like an occupation. It's a lottery. For every Grisham and King there are tens of thousands of writers -- some talented, some not -- working menial jobs and wracking up debt while waiting for a break that may never come.
If I'm going to get a break, it's going to happen this year. Beyond the release of Blood & Volume, there's a chance I could sell the film option to the book. There's a chance the documentary focusing on me and the book will be a huge indie success. In April, RCF and I head to L.A. to pitch "Camp" to anyone who will listen, and our prospects seem better than average.
There's a good chance all of these things will click and regular readers of this space will be able to say "I knew him when..." But at the same time there's a chance none of it will come together and I'll still be here a year from now telling you all about the next book (which is quite funny), the next film project (which is unique) or some other project which hasn't even been hatched yet.
It's an ugly, nerve-wracking way to make a living and there are days when the old me -- the me that was angry, bitterly begging for a heart attack and hopped up on too much coffee but shrouded in the security of a 9-to-5 job -- doesn't seem all that bad. When people ask me "How did you get into writing?" or "Why did you choose journalism as a career?" I tell them "It's the only thing I know how to do."
And they laugh because they think I'm joking.
The point of all this? I don't know. Attribute it to too much cold and flu medicine and too much time to do nothing but think about my career as daytime television commercials for the ITT Technical Institute play in between grim-faced Sokolove ads.
Or maybe just wish me luck. The next six months pretty much determine whether I win the lottery or become some hack who needs to decide whether its time to grow up and get a real job or start working at Kinko's as I devise a new plan to take one last shot at the title.Labels: bloodandvolume, life, work, writing
Posted at 2:11 PM
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