Yup. Writing for a living fucking sucks. As careers go, writing is the most overly-romanticised. Everyone is a writer. And everyone a critic. You’re the bottom of the food chain, because ‘anyone can write’ - they’re just words, how hard can it be!
The pay is lousy, if there is pay, and unless you’re very lucky, you don’t get any respect until you’re dead.
You spend your life inside your own head. Most of your ideas have either been done before or are just awful. Your day is filled with doubt, self-loathing and anger. You probably hate yourself, and most of humanity.
No-one understands you. 'Boo hoo’ they say, when you’re blocked while trying to write the next great novel, 'they’re only words, how hard can it be’. Assholes.
It takes years to hone your craft, years of ritual self abuse, mental flagellation and misery.
By this time if you’re not an alcoholic, then your heart just isn’t in it. Seriously, go paint or something.
Is writing a romantic career? No. Writing isn’t living in a house by the lake six months a year, writing is suffering in a rat-infested one-bedroom apartment.
If you can afford the lake house, you’re not a writer, you’re a lawyer with a misguided hobby.
Writing is a miserable profession, full of miserable assholes who all hate each other.
Writing is tearing your soul out every day and putting it on paper for others to consume, and judge.
Writing is hard. It’s painful. Is it really worth it?
Abso-god-damn-lutely it’s worth it; it’s the greatest job in the world.
I wouldn’t change it for anything. How about you?