Category: Writing

He isn’t being harsh enough

I can’t begin to explain how happy this thrashing by Radley Balko made me this morning. Consider:

The Washington Post’s Sally Jenkins — possibly the worst major daily sports columnist writing today — writes the most bizarre sports opinion piece I’ve seen in a very long time. And sports columns can be awful.

…

I’d suggest that Jenkins stick to writing about sports, and only sports. But she tends to embarass [sic] herself there, too.

Ummm, I concur. Not specifically about her foray into “sports as Intelligent Design?” argument. I could challenge any number of questions she poses, but why bother? I concurred with Mr. Balko’s opinion almost five years ago.

When Michael Vick led Virginia Tech to the BCS National Championship game (in January 2000), Ms. Jenkins wrote the most condescending piece of “journalism” I’d ever read. Her column amounted to little more than a nice pat on the head for Virginia Tech, congratulating us on reaching the pinnacle game while admonishing us for thinking we could compete with a “real” team (Florida State). That we led after three quarters and could’ve won until almost the end seemed to escape her attention. Every other football analyst in the nation wrote about the stunning performance by Michael Vick in that game and the amazing rise of Virginia Tech throughout the season, while Ms. Jenkins stood alone, pretending that none of it happened. Her column was so obscenely devoid of intelligence, I wrote a letter to the Washington Post. (I knew it wouldn’t accomplish anything, but still.)

I wonder if the last four years of Virginia Tech football changed her mind about our worthiness? How about our preseason rankings?

Trapped in the amber of the moment

Today is the perfect day for me to accidentally discover that Kurt Vonnegut has another book, A Man Without a Country, due in September. (Pre-order it here.) Here is the publisher’s marketing description of A Man Without a Country:

Based on short essays and speeches composed over the last five years and plentifully illustrated with artwork by the author throughout, A Man Without a Country gives us Vonnegut both speaking out with indignation and writing tenderly to his fellow Americans, sometimes joking, at other times hopeless, always searching.

As much as I’d love to read a new Kurt Vonnegut novel, this will suffice. His opinions tend to veer more pessimistic, further left-wing than mine, but he can write a scintillating phrase like no one else I’ve ever read. His works occupy my bookshelves and even provided the inspiration for the name of this site. Is it September 15th yet?

— This news is perfect because today is RollingDoughnut.com’s second anniversary (blogiversary?).

Put it back, Mr. Thomson. The King will remain a tyrant.

A distinct change has taken over America in the last few years (I’ll round it to 4&#189 years, just as a “random” estimation). This change affects how we interact with each other and what we believe is permissible. What really fascinates me, though, is that it affects how we enforce what is permissible. Gone are the days when we called our local sheriff to complain about a neighbor participating in “impropriety”. Today, we call the FBI or our Congressman. This solution might not be as quick as the sheriff, or even appropriate for the determined offense, but it is much more helpful to society as a whole because it’ll impact more than just our own neighborhood. We can save our brother in Cedar Rapids the effort of dealing with his local version of the incorrigible town malcontent. Our best friend’s mother-in-law won’t have to worry about undesirable behavior next to her duplex in New York City. The positive benefits are endless. We all know America is better for this. We are realizing the Utopia of National Conformity Unity.

Since I want to continue our progress, I have an idea. This idea, while appearing quite strange and radical at first glance, will revolutionize the way government happens in America. Society will benefit. America will be stronger. Gridlock will vanish. Creativity will soar. America will drive the new Golden Age of civilization. It will be beautiful.

Before I reveal my idea, I must confess that I don’t think it took as much of an imaginative leap as it might at first seem. It feels more like an extension of our present path. All I’ve done is wipe away the extraneous. But it’s a good cleanse, I think. So, what’s my idea? Are you sitting down? If not, you should; this idea is so stunning and new and spectacular that you just might faint. Have you taken my advice? Are you ready? Good, I’m going to tell it to you now. Beginning in 2008, each presidential candidate must propose, alongside his or her platform, an updated United States Constitution with which he or she plans to govern for the next presidential term.

I know, you can’t believe what you’ve just read. Brilliant, isn’t it? Especially because it’s so simple. And obvious. It really modernizes government, doesn’t it? And humanity, really. I can think of no flaws. None. And I’ve thought about this for at least five minutes.

Even though I know you know it’s brilliant, I’m sure you have questions about how this will work. Since you’ve grasped that the “why” is self-evident, I’ll skip ahead to your question. Each candidate must lay out a framework of the basic principles for the next administration. It can be a modified version of the sitting president’s constitution, or it can be a new version intended to scrap and reverse the old. Either way, the country gets to live under revitalized governance with current thinking injected every four years to shake off the cobwebs of the quaint past.

In this Information Age, time is almost meaningless as a measure of change. Our old methods sustained us when society encountered evolutionary adaptations and growth. Now our growth is revolutionary, with an idea life-cycle so short as to be beyond meaningless. Under this plan, it’s much more practical than to change based on our current election cycle than to rely on a constitution as old as our existing document. Every four years is better than every two centuries (or more). Who could disagree?

I do suspect that proposed constitutions will not differ for the candidate from the sitting president’s party, but that’s just a guess. Regardless, there will still be a variety of ideas proposed every four years. This can’t be bad.

Again, no restrictions would be placed on the proposed constitution because we want the law of the land to be responsive to ever-changing needs. That’s a good thing. And the proposed constitutions could be debated throughout the election campaign. Glaring inconsistencies or omissions could be rectified. Each candidate can clarify why the most important aspects of the new constitution may not be what seemed obvious. This all leads to election day, when the president-elect’s constitution is ratified according to his or her popular vote. If it makes it easier, think of each presidential candidate’s proposed constitution as his or her second running-mate.

Think about it. It’s a perfect solution. You think marriage should be only between a man and a woman? Vote for that constitution. You think Congress shouldn’t be able to prohibit flag desecration? Vote for that constitution. You think only socialist health care should be available? Vote for that constitution. You think only 14″-wide books should be allowed for novels or that only Toshiba televisions should be allowed for watching cartoons? Vote for that constitution. You think the judiciary is too activist? That worry is gone, too, because you can vote for the constitution that says only Punxsutawney Phil determines whether new laws satisfy the new strictures of the new constitution. How much simpler, not to mention the impartiality, can you get?

Hell, think bigger. Just imagine a world in which an official at publicly-funded buildings is required to read a Curious George book at 4:13 p.m. every day. You don’t think that would win votes? You haven’t thought hard enough, let me assure you. Or think how much the economy could soar with the need to print new constitutions every four years. Timber companies would grow. Or what about the financial benefit from the requirement that all public-school teachers wear a different puffed-paint headband for every lesson. I’m already counting the trickle-down riches, and they’re not just monetary.

Our children and grandchildren will no longer curse or mock us. They can choose their own society when they turn eighteen, unburdened by our antiquated choices. Wow.

If we act today, the magic can begin. Election 2008 is three short years away.

Fifteen words are worth a picture

Following up on yesterday’s post about personal “lockboxes” for social security, I want to pass along this brilliant analysis of John Fund’s idea. Consider:

I assume Fund’s unspoken premise is that substituting “marketable” Treasury bills for the current system of vague promises will make it more difficult for future versions of the government to cheat, because defaulting on Treasuries amounts to ripping off the Chinese, which is much harder to get away with than ripping off Americans. Note that this addresses the dishonesty problem only by increasing the insolvency problem: future fiscal obligations become larger and more mandatory.

And…

Anyway, read a few paragraphs down and tell me who’s huffing the pipe:

Would the deficit increase if Congress used the Social Security surpluses to create personal accounts rather than finance current government spending? Not if Congress found the will to cut federal spending by roughly 3% a year.

Oops; when I saw that the first time, I thought it said, “Not if Congress found a nest of pixies at the bottom of the garden who vomited shiny gold coins”, but then I realized that Fund’s assumption was ridiculous. His overall conclusion, however, is true: if we spent less money, then we would spend less money.

I tried to explain the absurdity of Mr. Fund’s proposal through illustrations. I think they were effective, but I wish I’d written Evan Kirchhoff’s words, instead. How much more fun it would’ve been to write “a nest of pixies at the bottom of the garden who vomited shiny gold coins” than to drag clip art into neat order in Microsoft Visio…

At least I’m not the only one who understands the basic principles of government and debt. And for what it’s worth, I’d like to participate in Evan’s “Let me out of Social Security” plan, as well.

(Link via The Penultimate Genius)

Do the Ickey Shuffle on “Newlyweds”

Dear Nick Lachey,

Instead of writing articles in The Cincinnati Enquirer about your passion for Cincinnati sports teams, please think of your fans. They don’t want to read this:

Now, I find myself questioning some of those loyalties because of the recent developments involving the Reds and Bearcats. I’ve tried to complain to Jessica about it, but she doesn’t have a clue what I’m talking about, so I’ve written this to assuage my frustration.

I doubt your fans have heard the word “assuage”, much less the definition. Because I’m nice, I will offer it to them here. I’m going to get more Google hits with your name so I’m offering this as a public service. Context makes a difference, so I hope most people can decipher the definition without the definition, but still. I’m here to serve. Behold and learn:

to make unpleasant feelings less strong

Really, though, would it be so hard for you to assuage your fans with what they want, which is a picture of your penis?

Thanks.

P.S. Your wife can’t sing. She should stop.

The slogan will include “bias” and “pious”

That liberal media is at it again. Or is it just that the conservative blogosphere has nothing better to do than obsess about how allegedly far out of touch Hollyweird Hollywood is? Either way, there’s a new target for the disdain of so many who believe that every word uttered by, for, on, or in the media is a rant against “real”, patriotic Americans. Today, that target is Law & Order: Criminal Intent. Behold the freedom-hating, indecency-loving, vile-hatred of innocuous dialogue, as recounted (with comments) here:

If you really want to be all-but guaranteed to pick up on a bit of leftist Bush bashing on television, there’s no better place to turn than to NBC’s “Law & Order” TV series. The season finale of the show featured a storyline on judicial security. Detectives think a white supremacist is involved in the shootings of a judge’s family. Here’s part of the dialogue from that show:

ADA RON CARVER: An African American judge, an appellate court judge, no less.

MAN: Chief of DS is setting up a task force. People are talking about multiple assassination teams.

DET. ALEX EAMES: Looks like the same shooters. CSU found the slug in a post, matched it to the one that killed Judge Barton. Maybe we should put out an APB for somebody in a Tom DeLay T-Shirt.

Ummm, ha ha? Really, it’s a stupid throwaway line, but that’s how people talk, stupid throwaway lines included. And I believe the point of scripted entertainment is to entertain. Do we really want dialogue to sound like this:

ADA RON CARVER: An American judge, an appellate court judge, no less.

MAN: Chief of DS is setting up a task force. People are talking about multiple assassination teams.

DET. ALEX EAMES: Looks like the same shooters. CSU found the slug in a post, matched it to the one that killed Judge Barton. Maybe we should put out an APB for somebody.

That works for me. “Somebody” doesn’t offend. It doesn’t describe either, but it doesn’t offend. And isn’t that the most important characteristic of entertainment? In business the maxim is “Cash is king.” I thought literature, a category in which screenwriting falls, the basic maxim is “Story is king.” Now I know better that the real literature maxim is “Non-offensiveness to any person’s politics, gender, sex, sexual orientation, education, ancestry, dietary considerations, disabilities, internet access, or humorlessness is king.” Really rolls off the tongue, doesn’t it?

After a few incredulous comments, Mr. Boortz tries his hand at dialogue writing. Consider:

ADA RON CARVER: “She looks like she was alive when the car went off the bridge”

MAN: “Why didn’t she get out? The water is only four feet deep here.”

CARVER: “Dunno. Maybe she was dazed. The door might have been jammed. Anyway, she suffocated. Lack of air. Must have been a brutal death.

MAN: “Was she driving when the car went off the bridge?”

CARVER: “Doesn’t look like it. The seat is too far back for her to have been driving. Looks like someone taller .. a lot heavier.”

DET. ALEX EAMES: “Check the car to see if it has a Ted Kennedy bumper sticker.”

Guess what? I caught the meaning. You know, that the evidence doesn’t add up to the alleged facts. Isn’t that what good writing is supposed to convey? But somehow, I don’t understand how that conveys that the hypothetical suspect is a crazy, moonbat, left-leaning, liberal elitist. I just don’t make that connection. But, of course, when it comes from the so-called liberal media, there’s a clear intention behind the stupid, throwaway line. As Mr. Boortz concludes:

I ask you to imagine, if you can, the outrage that would come pouring forth from the nation’s liberal media if any of those punchy little vignettes actually appeared on a network television show. We would see stories damming NBC for using that dialogue and making those references to liberal icons. But in this case all NBC did was suggest that DeLay supporters kill federal judges. That’s not bias .. that’s entertainment.

NBC did not suggest that DeLay supporters kill judges. Here’s NBC’s official position:

“This isolated piece of gritty ‘cop talk’ was neither a political comment nor an accusation,” NBC Entertainment President Kevin Reilly said. “It’s not unusual for L & O to mention real names in its fictional stories. We’re confident in our viewers’ ability to distinguish between the two.”

You mean viewers are smart enough to determine that the stupid, throwaway line implied that the killer might be a crazy person who took this statement as an immediate order to be carried out because Rep. DeLay stated “The time will come for the men responsible for this to answer for their behavior,” after judges refused to reverse the decision to remove Terri Schiavo’s feeding tube? You mean writers may take the easy way out to express their thought in an “inartful” way, just like Rep. DeLay “meant that Congress should increase its oversight of the courts.” Huh? No, I don’t believe that. It’s the liberal media. It can’t be anything else, my ideological talking point interpretation tells me so, so don’t try to convince me.

Is it really that devious? Or is there an alternate possibility? Maybe, just maybe, “Tom DeLay T-shirt” is a stand-in as a current events reference, a reference which explains the point in 14 words rather than a 3-page dissertation about public figures irresponsibly bitching about so-called activist judges and how those judges will eventually be made “to answer for their behavior”. Again, I state, isn’t that the point of effective writing? Particularly in dialogue?

If it quacks like a duck, sometimes it’s actually a sound clip of a duck, played on a computer by someone who realizes that purchasing a duck to hear a duck quack is overkill.

(Hat tip: Instapundit and my friend Will)

P.S. Mr. Boortz uses a picture from the original Law & Order, even though that isn’t the correct Law & Order for this non-scandal. Isn’t putting a misleading picture with a story a conservative argument against the so-called liberal media? I’m just saying.

Gramur reenforsmint: Describe the action verb

Proving that bad writing breaks the writer’s “conversation” with the reader, I stopped when I read this in today’s recap of yesterday’s Phillies/Nationals game:

Michaels spoke over a blaring Linkin Park/Jay-Z collaboration that blared over a battered boom box he found earlier in the day amid some junk in the bowels of RFK.

Blaring music that blared? Who’da thunk it?

I wield my pen without Juice

I’m filing this entry under Writing instead of Baseball because of my timing, which, as you read this post, you’ll discover is quite terrible. It’s sometimes stunning that I ever get anything done when it’s relevant on time. I’ll interject a few obvious comments as I proceed, but the focus will remain on the writing aspect of this.

In this post I mentioned that I want to be a writer. I haven’t so much wanted to be a writer all my life because I can’t lie and say I’ve wanted it “since I can remember”. But I have wanted it since I discovered that I love it. Several teachers during my school years sparked my Eureka! moment that hey, maybe I can do this. Little notes on biology papers saying “Well written” or “You’re a good writer” were enough to open the possibility. To those teachers I owe a debt, not because it’s led to anything (yet), but because it woke me up to myself, for want of a better term.

I didn’t suddenly start writing feverishly in those days. My interest trickled through from high school into college. Around my sophomore year, I began to get more serious. I started reading beyond the required college course curriculum. I started penning little scenes. They weren’t great in terms of story or character development, but they allowed me to build dialogue and scene. I learned the basics of my natural strengths and weaknesses. An end goal of writing something longer and more developed began with the obvious dream of publication. Despite how big and daunting the task seemed, I already had my proof of concept. I’d already been published.

I’m a huge baseball fan, something that anyone who reads RollingDoughnut.com already knows. As a kid, I had more time to indulge that passion with morning box score perusing and the gift of TBS. (What I could do today with that much free time and the internets is beyond any rational fathoming.) Every year I anticipated the yearly baseball preview magazines. I had no favorite, preferred magazine, so I bought them all when they came out. I read them cover to cover. I memorized statistics. I even cut pictures from them and made scrapbooks manly photo collections of my favorite players. I devoured every prediction and projection. I was always a little disappointed that my Braves were never picked to win even though I believed. (For more on how I became a Phillies phan, click here.) I counted the days until opening day, the season schedule having already been posted above my desk, a ritual that perpetuates to this day.

In 1988 I had an unexpected bonus. Flipping through the pages of that year’s Grandslam magazine, I found this page:

Greed took over. Baseball cards exploded as an “investment” in 1998 as internet stocks exploded ten years later. An unopened, factory-sealed set of 1988 Fleer could allow me to retire a minimum of 5 years earlier than I could without them. I just knew it, so I had to have them. What was a little distraction like a writing contest to get in the way?

I sat at my desk, the one with the peeling white paint and wood-carved etchings of “this sucks” and black-markered ramblings, and wrote my masterpiece. I wrote it long-hand because computers were of the Commodore 64 variety, which we had, and printers were of the expensive variety, which we didn’t have. Typing didn’t seem to offer me the immediate connection to the page and the brilliant words. So I wrote, putting only my best thoughts forward. I scratched out the bad parts that didn’t project my creation forward. I put everything I had on paper and left only what was necessary. I finished, wrote my word count, then my revised word count, then my revised revised word count, before finally narrowing it down to the perfect number, requiring only 80% of the maximum words allowed. Every great writer knows that the later drafts should be shorter than the first. I was the greatest.

Seventeen years later, I still have this creation. Behold my genius:

Holy crap, am I embarrassed. Not because of the quality of the writing, which was good considering I was only fourteen when I wrote it. (It was extra good when compared to the other entries, but I fast forward too soon.) No, I’m embarrassed because I was so ignorant that I sent my edited rough draft as my final draft. I’ve learned since then, but I can only admit that I was an amateur. But, my God, I knew it didn’t matter because those cards would be mine. Oh, yes, they would fill my greedy fifteen-year-old hands by the fall of 1988. I had no doubt.

Expanding on the brilliance of my essay, I must now explain my choice of subject, which naturally seems silly in 2005. I chose Jose Canseco for one reason: I was a whore. I could’ve written about Dale Murphy, who any right-thinking American knows was the greatest player of the ’80s. He’s my favorite player, yet I sold my soul for the riches. Even then I understood the media bias involved in any story. I couldn’t win with the truth; I had to win with the sexy. Nothing more, nothing less. I compromised my values made an intelligent editorial decision to get my hands on the bounty.

I mailed the essay.

Six months later, I lay bandaged on our living room couch from what is now known as The Macaroni and Boiling Water Incident&#153. The Macaroni and Boiling Water Incident&#153 offered one unexpected, desirable benefit: while my brother wasted away in school, I stayed home to heal, allowing me to watch Oakland and Jose Canseco smash Boston in the 1988 American League Championship Series. Baseball hadn’t quite come to its intention of scheduling every game to start in primetime, so I had afternoon baseball. One of these days I was home, the mail arrived bearing forgotten fruit. The editors of Grandslam chose my essay. The letter was even signed in ink. In ink!

I didn’t care about the baseball cards and my soon-to-be-realized riches. I’d won. The 1989 edition of Grandslam would have my name in it. I could not wait to see my name on the page with words I wrote. Along with every other writer in the magazine, baseball fans all over the country would read my essay and say “Wow, I see why that guy won. Is an essay in Grandslam eligible for the Pulitzer? I hope so because that guy really deserves it.” Wow.

With publication 4 months away, I had nothing else to do but wait for the cards to arrive. By this time, doubting my stupendous ability, I’d purchased a complete set of 1988 Fleer. Double the riches! I waited and waited and waited. I received another letter telling me that the editors ordered my cards and they would arrive soon. In the meantime they sent me a framed poster of “my idol” Jose Canseco to placate me until the cards could arrive. And it was signed in ink again! Behold:

Flabergasted at their generosity is all I can say. The cards were so scarce and in such demand that it delayed the order. The wealth multiplied. As a reminder of my spectacular skill with sheet of looseleaf notebook paper and an 89&#162 Bic, I hung the poster on my wall until we moved a few years later. (Somewhere between the move and
today, it disappeared. I don’t miss it.)

A few weeks later, my cards arrived with another note from the editor. Again he signed it in ink. Damn I was important. The set had the seal still intact and he wisely pointed out that the set would be worth more with the seal intact. I knew this, but I appreciated the personal care.

The set was worth $35, so I couldn’t believe what the numbers would be when I projected them out into my future. I filed the boxed set away in my closet. I should’ve opened a safe deposit box at the bank, complete with insurance for the value that I could expect in the future. Since I was too young for that, I placed it in the back of the closet and told no one outside of my family that I’d won cards to complement my essay’s publication. I will always remember the fall of 1988 as the Wonderful Season of Greed&#153.

In the spring of 1989, I began scouring bookstores much earlier than in previous years. I had a mission to see my name and enjoy my fifteen minutes of glory. I always knew before I walked into the store whether or not the 1989 issue of Grandslam had arrived. When there were no balloons and banners celebrating my achievement, I knew I’d have to check another day. But it was only a matter of time.

The magazine arrived in stores with little fanfare, which surprised me given my reasonable expectations. I scanned the Table of Contents and thumbed the pages to find Page 4. Oh. Oh my God. This was even better than imagined. “I’m on page 4,” I thought! But where were the balloons and banners?

I found page 4. My spirit deflated. There, stealing all my glory, thirteen essays stared at me and not one of them was mine. What? But I won? I read the words in horror:

…our original plan was simply to print the outstanding response and award the prize – a complete set of baseball cards of the winner’s choice.

However, the flood of mail was so great, and the variety of arguments so magnificent, we’ve decided to publish not only the winning essay, but also to expand the format and share some experts from the many other letters that came to us.

See…

That wasn’t part of the deal. How could they do that to me? I can’t believe they cheapened my moment of glory by publishing the losers. They were losers, not winners like me. Ugh.

I scanned the page for my name and didn’t see it. What? I finally found “Continued on page 54…” What? Page 54? I’m buried in the middle of the magazine? But I won! These people didn’t win, I did. How can they be on page 4 and I’m on page 54? “Drink my fucking Ovaltine, indeed,” wiped every other thought away.

I flipped to page 54 and saw this.

Nine essays ahead of mine. Nine and thirteen meant twenty-two people had their glory before I got mine. And I was the “winner”. The superiority of my essay consoled me. I’d addressed the argument in a direct manner, supporting my thesis with clear facts. I addressed every aspect of the game, unlike the others. My essay required intellect and knowledge of baseball to write. I felt better. I did plan to use some of my future baseball card wealth to hire goons to prevent future publication by the other twenty-two “writers”, though.

Today, of course, the reality is different. I’m still working. I still have that set of baseball cards. Today, on eBay, sellers have the factory-sealed set listed at $8.99, with no bidders. But I was published once and that keeps me going.

…

Post script: One final thought. Every part about me being upset at having twenty-two essays printed before mine, that was believable, right? Writers are jealous by nature, you know, so I had that part of it, too. But, here’s the thing about my jealousy… I made that part up.

Mostly.

Inking my inner monologue

Today marks the end of my first contract as a self-employed contractor. Much has happened in the last twelve months, most of it positive. The primary lesson I’ve learned is that independence is the right fit for me. I like the freedom, the flexibility, and the respect that comes with being my own boss. In the past, my previous employer had a track record of former employees returning to the company for a second journey. I don’t know if that’s changed in the last year or not (probably less so given the health of the economy), but one certainty exists after my first year: I will not be one of those former employees.

I don’t mention lead with this to stumble through a recap of the last twelve months. I possess a tendency and preference for nostalgia, but this isn’t one of those times. I lead into this because the end of year one almost necessarily indicates a looking forward to year two. It is never a given that past employment guarantees future employment, but I’ve done nothing to shake my customer’s (I love that word) faith in me. The only discussion of renewing my contract has been a clear indication that I’m expected to continue in my current role with the next phase of my project. I’ll be working “at risk” starting tomorrow, which means I could conceivably do work for which I’m never paid. There is little chance of that, though, as working “at risk” is almost a rite of passage when dealing with the molasses-slow contract process of the federal government, but it’s a consideration. I’ll work under an assumed contract until the beginning of June, when I’ll sign a new contract for the following twelve months.

In theory I could’ve packed up my belongings this afternoon before I left work, say nothing, and not return tomorrow. It’s my legal right now that I’ve fulfilled my contractual obligation. I didn’t pack up, of course, because that wouldn’t have been the honorable action. That I wanted to is the reason for my anticipation of what the future could hold.

I’ve known that my long- short-term goal is to be a professional writer, but I’ve rarely done anything to move forward, to achieve even the smallest hint of success. I have ambitions of being a novelist. I’m in the process of writing my first novel, with the expectation that it’ll be really bad. So bad that I can move on to the next one with all the experience from the first. I just love writing. That’s the reason why I keep this blog. The number of readers checking in here fluctuates wildly between one and half-a-dozen, so I’m not getting rich doing this. I write whether anyone reads it or not because I love it. The writing is for me. I feel alive when I write. I discover what I believe when I write. I understand myself more with every word. And every word moves me closer to my dream.

Over the last eighteen months or so that I’ve blogged, I’ve gained an appreciation for essay and article writing. I have no idea if I can do it professionally, but I want to try that, too. I suspect that my first writing-for-pay will come from that. But I’ll never get to even that entry point if I don’t work for it. I’m not old, but my dream will get harder the longer I wait. Publishers will be less willing to take a chance. I might be less willing to make necessary sacrifices, whether in time or money. These thoughts creep into my mind more often now, particularly as my first contract expired today.

I will continue in my current job for at least the next fourteen months because the money is good. I can use the money to help me make some of the necessary sacrifices when I’m ready to break away from my current career and be a part- or even full-time writer. If I find a writing job, that would offset the monetary sacrifices to an extent, but I have no illusions that I’ll walk into a lucrative writing gig immediately. Without a writing job, I’ll have the instant danger of no income. Either of those possibilities is scary, so building a reserve is comforting and wise. But I have no illusions that my job motivation is anything more than the money. The Money&#153 is the one motivation I always swore I’d never use again. I did it in the past and I hated it, but I had to do it to survive. The money now offers flexibility, but I can’t let it become an addiction or an all-consuming excuse to keep going.

That doesn’t mean I hate my career now. I’m good at it and there are parts of it that satisfy my curiosity for problem-solving, logic, and intellectual structure. But it doesn’t offer it in the quantity that I need it. My tasks involve those skills a few hours each week. Writing gives me those satisfactions every moment I’m doing it. Even when I’m stuck and it’s painfully slow, it’s still satisfying. I’m happy every moment of the process. So I need to pursue it further. I need to try to make it my career. I’m tired of waiting.