Optimism in the Face of . . . Crapatage

I don't know about any of you, but things lately . . . well, I feel like Demon Baby's sidekick has been here. (And I SWEAR that kid may end up to be a writer yet, what with his gift for words. Even if all the words have "crap" in them.) Yes, the economy has been engineered by Crapatage. Then, you can read things like this and it's enough to make you run for this. Or this.

And I have to admit . . . it's been pretty tough to be optimistic when I spend fifty bucks at the grocery store and come home with this. I'm being facetious, but when a gallon of milk costs more than a gallon of gas, and you have three kids at home to feed and one off in college . . . what am I say . . . I need this.

But actually, I don't think that way. I'm stressed . . . don't get me wrong, but when I was fifteen and my dad and I were talking about that old "what should I do with my life" thing, and he said, "You know what? You should be a writer," I remember saying, "But how would I earn a LIVING." Dad, a firm believer in education and writing said something like, "If you're a writer, you can do ANYTHING." He was of the opinion smart people ruled the world. Given him, I have to wonder.

But out of that conversation, I decided to be a journalist. Until I found out I would have to ask really, really intrusive questions of people. Now I write profile pieces sometimes, for magazines like this one. But I don't have to be "mean." It's a good type of journalism for someone with a Buddhist bent.

Along the way, too, I became a book editor. Then, after a few years, I got really, really, really sick. And I couldn't work. Finally, I did return as an editor, but I had this view of life being really, really, really short. And I wanted a baby, even though it was really, really, really dangerous. When Oldest Son was born, I wanted to stay home with him, because . . . well, I just couldn't imagine leaving him in daycare. So I decided to be a freelance book editor. That worked out very well. So well, in fact, that I wrote this book. Then I wrote a novel. And here we are. I have a blog, I have my books, I have a Demon Baby--plus three others. Life is good.

Except when it's not.

But even when it's not . . . I keep going back to when I was with my dad and we were talking. It seemed ABSURD that someone would want to make a living as a writer. Didn't they live in Parisian attics and starve? And it's been a while, but I remember him saying, "SOMEONE has to have that job. SOMEONE has to be a novelist. SOMEONE has to write articles. Might as well be you."

As I said on her blog yesterday, I'm not afraid. Bring your A-game and keep writing. First of all, someone has to. Second, as numerous people around this blog have commented, if you could do anything else, you wouldn't be a writer. It's some kind of calling to do this insane career. Since you can't do anything else BUT write (because something drives you to write), then you're simply, my friends, screwed. You're going to keep doing it anyway, so you might as well do it with abandon. And finally, I don't talk about it much . . . he does more than I do, but if you write to make a living, there are many avenues that let you work from home and have this pretty cool gig whereby you can sit in your pjs and pound your keyboard all day while still writing fiction consistently. There are ways to ride out this fiction storm.

Maybe I am hopelessly optimistic. Or maybe it's because really? No one would hire me for a REAL job. But I'm not freaking out.

Thoughts?

How Full Is Your Glass?

I was raised by a glass half-empty father. And a "the glass is what it is" practical mother.

What they ended up with is a "glass more than half-full daughter who veers toward glass is what it is when circumstances suck."

I go through periods when my glass starts feeling utterly drained. Right now, for example. I could give you a laundry list--sister and her children moved, Oldest Daughter leaving, strange bruising on my stomach making me think Crohn's is acting up, too much to do, not enough time, and that dang laundry pile. But in the end, I always feel terribly selfish for ever complaining. I don't feel I was created to complain. I feel I was created as a child of joy. And when the joy is missing, I need to push on through and find it again.

I love the following quote:

The dream is not up there in the sky or the stars. It's right here in your heart.~Dan Zadra

Most writers I know are dreamers. It's how we're hardwired--why else to pursue a career with impossible odds. BUT, within our ranks are the half-full folks and the half-empty. Sometimes we're both--just at different times.

And all this got me thinking about yesterday's post on horror books. I wonder if our WORLDVIEW, our glass, determines what we like to write in some ways. Think the world is an inherently hopeless place, and you have Cormac McCarthy. Think the world a place of optimism, and you have my November release, Freudian Slip, in which hope trumps all.

So how full is your glass? And do you think that determines what you gravitate toward writing?