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Prose of Hypocrits

I've mentioned on near innumerable occasions that I am aware of, and am even fond of my own hypocrisy. It is a measure of the lack of pride I hold in myself, of my modesty in certain respects, that I don't take myself so seriously that I should be consistent enough to be considered reliable.

And so, when only a week or so ago I was decrying the prostitution of the writing community, it should really come as no surprise to you that I am considering the benefit of writing for profit. My attempts to generate wealth from writing are, to date, almost non-existent. Yet despite this, I have won a writing competition (albeit an inaugural one which hasn't reared its head since), which did not yield a prize of any kind bar the satisfaction of beating everyone else who entered. I have also won several prizes from certain forums I frequent which sometimes reward good writing with prizes. About 7 in total I think, winning about �30-40 a time.

I won �30 just the other day, honestly unexpected, for posting up the Not a Confession story I wrote into the diary entry window here a while back. Sure, I had to make some ammendments given the acceptable level of language allowed, but other than that, it was unchanged.

That story took a couple of hours to write, at work, while doing work. If I'd really been concentrating, it would have taken half the time and, with all due modesty, it would have been twice as good. There is an argument, then, for spending more time writing in order to supplment my income. An argument even, for attempting to make it my sole source of income if I deem myself good enough to earn it.

Or perhaps I am a victim of the everpresent flattery inherent in the writing community. I've been bombarded with terms such as "fantastic writer" and "excellent talent", but these words are regurgitated almost reflexively by a community that is terrified that overt criticism of others will ultimately lead to the same treatment of their own work. So maybe the sincerity of such praise should be, while not openly contempted, perhaps taken with a fistful of salt.

The best comment I ever received was being told that I was a failed writer before I'd even started writing much. I was just slapping words down onto websites, held in rapture by the fact that I could string a few rudimentary sentences together. My response was the longest story I've written to date, posted in 1,000 word installments on a forum. It generated a regular audience desperate for the next episode. Perhaps desperate is too strong a word, but you get the picture. I neither want nor need to be coddled through my writing efforts and experiences.

But do you think I could sit at home amidst the distraction of the media centre that it is and write full-time. Don't even joke about it. Whatever the fiscal benefits of selling my somewhat disturbed thoughts for others to read, it is far easier for me - and I am far likelier to succeed - to just be the accountant I'm set to become, and earn a solid if unspectacular salary, and write as a pastime. Perhaps that's a missed opportunity. Or perhaps I'm not prepared to gamble a perfectly decent future for the fatuous notion that people might be interested to purchase whatever spasmodic utterings I deem them worthy of reading.



1 message(s) of denial

beagle47 - 2006-10-25 00:14:11

we simply must begin a publication which publishes only failed writers and allows said failures to be its only subscribers. we'd be rich and, likely, published. ah, to sleep, perhaps to dream... make mine a double, eh?

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Copyright Insane Bartender 2006-10-23 9:17 a.m.

e-mail me: Insane Bartender