By Jim Wright
As previously noted, every once in a while I have to ask for money.
Having given up military consulting work and having shut down my woodworking business and art studio when I left Alaska, I subsist for the moment solely on income derived from my social media sites and this blog.
A few years back, I wouldn’t have believed this possible.
A few years back it wouldn’t have been possible.
But despite the sneering criticism of certain vocal critics, it is possible for a writer to make a reasonably decent living this way.
It used to be “writer” was defined as somebody who assembled words and ideas into books, short stories, articles, and perhaps screenplays, fact or fiction, and submitted those efforts via various means to editors at publishing houses or various presses or various media outlets, and then lived on cheese sandwiches hoping a check of some modest amount would come back. Traditionally the profession of “writer” meant you repeated this cycle without healthcare or adequate hygiene or presentable clothes until you died, or gave it up for a real job – both of which happened with distressing frequency.
That model, that definition of writer, still very much exists.
And a lot of writers make varying degrees of living from it.
But there’s a new way to do things and that’s where I am. In that strange new middle ground.
I wanted to be a writer since I was kid. It’s a sickness, writing. A weird mental disorder that makes you sit in front of a keyboard for hours, daydreaming and playing with ideas and wondering why anybody would read the blather on the screen. But my grandmother gave me a Hardy Boys book (#8; The Mystery of Cabin Island) for Christmas one year when I was about 8 or 9. I’d been an indifferent reader …read more
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