Me: "God. This is great! I love this creative writing life. I can make up whatever I want, and no one has much of a say so, and did I mention, this is great. Whoopie!"
|Mt. Washington in Central OR|
My conscience, (The Big C, henceforth): "Hey, you there. Are you kidding me? No f**king around here. Get on to something more productive. You're at the height of your income-earning years. There's no way you are going to make money writing crazy stories about things you make up. Get a life (translate: job), girlie."
Me: "But not everything can be boiled down to monetary gain. This writing thing, it's life generating. I think I'm on to something here."
The Big C: "You think you're the only dreamer? Ha! Just go trolling around Amazon and you'll see how many people are generating life! A whole pack of crazies. Put that pencil down and go make some money."
Me: "You're harsh. Are you sure you know the meaning of life?"
The Big C: "You like bread? You like butter? How about that house you live in? I saw you eating shrimp last night."
Me: "Here. (I show a paper to The Big C) Here's a story I can sell. It's about a gator-hunting bootmaker. Here's another. This guy writes cowboy poetry. You know, they all use their creativity for something greater than a roof over their heads -- they create to live. Now, leave me alone. I need to dream."
The Big C goes quiet. For a while. I feed it some more paid articles. She shakes her head.