What ain't about money?
Writers don't write to make lots of money.
Okay, I shouldn't generalize. It only takes one red car to kill the statement 'All cars are white.' Or one literary novelist makin' it rain up in the hizzouse to prove me wrong.
So: many writers, the writers I know, the writers I admire, the writers I friend on Facebook, the writers who still have day jobs, don't write just to make money.
Money is nice. A nice, "Wow, and I get this, too?!" Money is validation. Money is gravy ... and I like gravy. In a house with a mouse, in a car, near and far. I like gravy. But I made gravy, ahem, money, before selling novels. Doing discovery for ARCO. Stocking the Levi's wall at Miller's Outpost. Stuffing envelopes for almost every non-profit organization I've worked for. Anyone can make money. That dog that was in 'The Artist'? He's made a lot of money. Whitney Houston, rest her soul, has made more money in her death than I've made in my life. So, yeah: Dead People see Dead Benjamins.
So, if it ain't about the ends, why is it about?
I love words. I love story. I enjoy my disbelief when observing people and their actions and I want to share that disbelief through the best way I know how: with a pen and pad. I sing but I don't pen great songs like Bernie Taupin. I play piano but I don't compose like Gershwin. I write.
And I write because I must. Because I can. Because someone has to tell you, yes you, that there's a dead body (real or imagined) in that alley over there because you need to know so that we can all stop the monster who's doing scary s*&t to other citizens.
And books are my vehicle for doing that, a modern day, Here Thar Be Monsters!
I hope that makes sense.
And yes, this is a reactionary post.
And no, they didn't say nothin' 'bout my momma.