Synergy

It has been intimated to me on several occasions that writing and working are two very separate concepts for the vast, vast majority of writers. Making enough money off of writing to somehow survive and focus on writing alone is some kind of privilege that few can ever hope to attain. Writing is more an exercise in telling a story than it is an exercise in making a living.

At first, I felt this sort of division was ludicrous at best. Writing is very hard work. It requires discipline and focus that your average leisure hour simply cannot easily afford. Why is it that we as authors must accept the fact we will never be worth more than the passing interest of our readers. We accept that only a select few of us - not necessarily the best - will ever achieve the dizzying heights of greatness which allow for financial sustainability. I have devoted a great deal of time and effort into the pursuit of a method by which I might skirt this reality. Simply put, I feel it is unfair.

Incidentally, I have been writing more or less full-time for approximately seven years now. It has brought me from starry-eyed wonder to despair and back again several times over. I have seen myself squander opportunity after opportunity. I have taken for granted the absolute blessing of time to write. I have been arrogant and I have been humbled. In this time, I have developed many ideas, but I have produced very little in the way of concrete writing. In some ways, I look at the past seven years as time wasted. In many other ways I look back over them as valuable experiences.

Now, though, life is changing. The mission of writing is becoming more urgent to me. This is happening simultaneous to - or perhaps as a result of - my need to rejoin the drudgery of the everyday workforce. I have spent my entire life working on a complex and largely unfinished science fiction epic series. It's a big series. I could easily span fifty books (probably more) if time and effort were limitless. Every waking moment involves pondering the plot of this gargantuan beast I have constructed. Every passing moment is another opportunity to immerse myself in its fiction. This is why the "regular" working world does seem so very much like drudgery to me.

My goal is, and on some level always has been, to write this story. To present it to the world. Between tinkering with the plot and trying to find the best way of getting the story out there, I have molded my life around this project. Working at another job is merely a distraction and, sadly, a necessary one. Bills never stop coming.

Perhaps I have approached the task of writing all wrong. Maybe I came at this whole thing backwards. It certainly is feasible that I would make such a mistake. Somehow, somewhere, I need to find a commonality with all the other writers in the world who invest their lives not so much into writing as they do into the passing needs of finances. I need to find that baseline synergy (a word which is despicable but necessary) which allows me to write with more proficiency than I have shown in the past while simultaneously burning countless hours working at a job - any job - which manages to pay the bills without distracting me too much from my real desire.

This seems to be the hardest challenge for any writer. It is the muse killer and it threatens me now.