We often wonder, “Is there any hope for writers?” We used to think so. Do you remember being very young and having hope for your ambitions? Depending on when you were born, your only limit may have been your imagination.
When I was young, there was no internet back then, and that was both good and bad.
It was bad because I couldn’t research what it took to become a novelist. None of my teachers had any clue about it, either. The library (full of actual physical books) was of very little use, because most of the books were decades old.
It was good because I couldn’t research what it took to become a writer. There weren’t millions of opinions and tons of misinformation to murk-up the path to success.
Back in the good old days…
…all you really had to be was an excellent writer with a really, really good story. And all you had to do was just have the fortitude to endure rejection after rejection from agents all over the country (or world). And then, one day, if you were good enough, and had just the right stories, at just the right time, presented to just the right agent, then you, too, could become a published author! And you … yes, you … could probably make a halfway-respectable living off of writing those novels. Or better.
But NOW …
… the murk is so sludgy that we don’t even know which way to start. Who do you listen to? They all have experience up the ying-yang, they all know what they’re talking about, and they all agree on how it is nearly impossible to make a living off of writing books.
Then there are the other editors and writers who also all know what they’re talking about, with tons of experience, and they all say that nothing is impossible, everyone has what it takes, all you need is good marketing, and so forth. But it’s still nearly impossible. There are just too many writers out there, all trying to become accomplished authors.
So, is there any hope for writers? It seems like everybody is trying to convince us there isn’t much.
Ok. We give up.
We want to give up, anyway. If we are going to pour out our souls into a novel, or a series of novels, but no-o-o-o-o-o-body cares out there, then maybe we should just forget the whole thing and enjoy life.
Imagine! We give up that book, and suddenly—we don’t need our email list anymore! We don’t need to figure out marketing. We don’t need an author page. Heck, we don’t even need an email address, Facebook, YouTube, the internet … Hey! Maybe we don’t even need to have a computer! Well, do we really need it? For those of us who are old enough to remember, we didn’t have such stuff. We didn’t have cell phones, no texting, no GPS, no streaming on the TV.
Really. All we had back then was (and get ready for this, younger people) a plain TV with an antenna on the roof, with four channels. ABC, CBS, NBC, and PBS. That’s it. And a plain old phone on the wall. No caller ID. No *69. No voicemail, no answering machine. If the phone rang, and we missed it, then that was just tough.
Gee … We could go back to that! Why not? Doesn’t that sound great? Maybe just get a really simple job … Think of the stress reduction! It would be like a vacation we never have to leave.
So, get this, people. I did it.
Ok, it was only for a day, and I only pretended. I sat there for a good four hours, thinking really hard, and talking to my dog, about how it would feel to just give up on writing, business, TV, cell phones … I had to completely convince myself that I was stepping out of this modern world of impossible dreams and into the carefree world of four or five decades ago. It felt wonderful!
No more bending my brain, no more trying to be successful. No more possibility of failure. No more wondering, “Is there any hope for writers?” The stress just melted away.
Until that night.
I went to bed. I fell asleep. And then the nightmare came. This could be the most horrible dream I’ve ever had.
I’m even ashamed of it. But I need to tell you, because it could change your life.
I dreamed that I had a small animal in my hand, and I had to kill it. And it didn’t even bother me when I did it. And then I put it in a sandwich and ate it.
Where in the depths of my demented mind did this come from?!?!!!?? What did it mean? I could NEVER intentionally hurt an animal. I would rather die!
For two or three hours, I tried to make sense of it. When that didn’t work, I tried to get it out of my head. When that didn’t work, I considered knocking myself out with Benadryl. I considered taking a double or triple dose, or more … despite the consequences shown by the Benadryl Challenge. Yes, this dream was that disturbing to me.
Then something saved me. I was headed for the medicine cabinet, when it hit me. I knew what the dream meant!!!
The animal represented my dream of writing. Eating the sandwich represented the concept of being a lazy glutton and shrugging off all stress in my life. And when I woke up after the dream, it was so disturbing to me that I just wanted to die.
That nightmare saved my dream.
Killing my dream would be as bad as killing an animal. I was just casually thinking about killing off my dream. That’s just wrong. That is not me.
So, is there any hope for aspiring writers? Well, what does your conscience tell you? Do you see what this dream really means? It means, for me and for you, as long as we care about our own dreams, there IS PLENTY of hope.
And nothing can kill that.