I’m not going to lie, writing professionally is a tough career choice. How you eat in the next month depends entirely on how well your next book sells. People think it’s tough living from paycheck to paycheck, living from book to book is even worse.
I didn’t start into writing in order to make money, I wrote because I loved to write. I was a fresh, young mind who thought he could change the world with the words he could put on paper. Unfortunately, that dwindled, and now, I’m spent. I have no ideas, no more brilliant thoughts or interesting plot twists. My book proposals have practically become kindling for my agent’s fireplace. I made no money, therefore, he made no money.
It’s even worse when you’re first novel is a breakaway hit. When it sits on the New York Times bestseller list for months at a time, you know you’ve stumbled on to something big. And I thought it was huge. I had the Porsche, the loft in the city, I made appearances every where, I was the center of attention. But, as Warhol promised, I only got 15 minutes. My second novel flopped, big time. So did my third, and my fourth. Now, I sit here in my apartment, throwing darts at a picture of J.K. Rowling. That sell out of a bitch.
I needed to recharge my batteries. I was only 26, and my life was going down the drain. I would be completely washed out if I couldn’t sell another book. I dropped out of college to start my writing life, so I had nowhere to go. If I could just get back that enthusiasm, that spark, those flashes of brilliance that force the readers to turn pages.
My life long friend saw that I was in distress. He, unlike my dumb butt, actually finished college. He was now a Sociology teacher at the local community college. He liked what he did, and that was all that mattered. I, too, liked what I did, but it didn’t get me anywhere. One night, after his night class, he took me out for a drink at the local pub.
“Jeremy, you need to get yourself out of this. Have you even considered another line of work?” he asked.
“Mike, it’s not about work, or keeping myself busy. I feel that I was born to write, so that is exactly what I am going to do.”
“Buddy, admit it, you need the cash. Your accounts are dwindling, you live in a dump, and you look like hell.”
He was right, I did look like shit. I had a two day growth on my face, my clothes were a crumpled mess, my hair was wildly out of control. I needed help. I used to look great. Six foot even, lean build that was always complemented by some fancy suit. My clean shaven face always showed my stone-like features and sharp cut jaw, and I had always had a well-oiled hairdo that forced my eyes to shine their brilliant blues.
“What am I going to do? I have nothing anymore. Every day, I sit with pen in hand, and nothing happens.” I was starting to leak tears now, and the alcohol wasn’t helping.
“Maybe that is your problem, just sitting there. You need to get out some, observe what’s happening, see what people like, and then write what you see. And most of all, maybe you should get laid.” Again, he was right. I had to get out more, get back in touch with the same people that threw me out of the loop.
Mike helped me back to my apartment, as I was too drunk to even see straight. I don’t remember when I fell asleep, but when I woke up, it seemed like the most beautiful morning I had ever seen.
In the same clothes I had fallen asleep in, I took to the streets of New York. I had always lived around the Queens area, so I felt very comfortable in the areas that the tourists wouldn’t dream of coming too. I tried to take it all in. The sights and the sounds. The smells of the fish docks, reeking of the days catch. The wet-slapping sounds of fish hitting crates of crushed ice. People yelling at each other, doing their jobs, swinging their knives. To anyone else it would have seemed chaotic. But to the true New Yorker, it was clockwork, as it would in any other hour.
I kept walking, past the docks and into the city. People were everywhere on the sidewalks, trying to sell the unsuspecting passer-by the fake Rolex or pair of Oakleys. But it was behind these people, behind the green-grocer stands and the guy selling news papers, it was behind them, that I saw her.
