All for Love

I don't do this job for the paycheck. 'Cause there isn't one. I mean, I get an advance check, parceled out over the course of writing my novel, royalties are give out twice a year. But there's no health insurance, no sick days, no pension . . . and it ain't steady. I support a family of six entirely as a writer. When I get optioned (such as Warner Brothers optioning Mafic Chic), that's extra. But mostly I do it because I love it. And because I'm too flaky to work in a real office.

Lately, three of my four kids have been gravitating toward wanting to do things when they grow up that will be unsteady, too. One wants to be a violinist, one wants to be in a band (not sure what instrument . . . he plays more than one). One wants to be a drummer. My son has long hair so I can't see his eyes, and my younger daughter has a penchant for wearing bright pink Chuck Taylor sneakers. Conformists they are not.

But I think, years ago, before kids were a reality, I probably would have thought kids should pick "safe" things. I went to school with peers who became doctors, lawyers, and CPAs. I'm the only eccentric who signed on for this gig. But now . . . now I just think it's really cool that my kids will likely be unemployed musicians and maybe writers (two of them are interested in writing). Because life is long (hopefully), and at the end, as I wrote in The Roofer, they staple your mouth shut, put you in a coffin and give you a send-off (except for me--cremation, no coffin, scattered to the wind, thanks). One trip through this life. So why the HELL would you want to get up each day and honor "the man" and work a job you hate so you can put in thirty years, retire, and die?

Thanks, but no thanks. I'll take this gig. I'll do it because I love it. I'll sweat the royalty checks and the deadlines, and work these weird hours. And my kids . . . maybe they will be in a rock band and out on the road playing in dives. But it's one journey through this existence. Do it for love.

Thoughts?
E