It was Ernest Hemingway who used the writing instructions, “First let the dingos eat your darlin’s.”
It’s not always a pleasant profession, this writing stuff.
It takes extensive research, sound judgment, marvelous vocabulary, and occasionally nerves made of a material they make very hard things out of.
And you have to count your words almost constantly if your British-made Smythe-Corona does not have that function.
You must be a substantial person to withstand the long hours and poor remuneration involved. Further, there is frequent public and familial derision regarding the inability to secure gainful employment.
In short, writing is not for crybabies. It’s a place for pioneers, cowboys, hunters, fighters, and superheroes, not sensitive hallmark movie weepers.
If Dirty Harry and Fistful of Dollars give you the cinema sniffles, the post office is still hiring. The writing involved is more limited, you don’t really worry about how the story turns out, and you don’t have to go home at night and watch your stats page.
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