This blog post, “10 Reasons Not to Be A Writer,” is pretty funny. I like this reason:
One of the very worst things about being a writer is the existence of other writers. There are literally thousands of writers out there, and many of them will have better Amazon rankings than you and be placed in more prominent places in bookshops. Other writers win prizes and climb bestseller lists and are photographed at all the right events. Other writers are probably having a whale of a time, naked, rolling around on the floor, glugging absinthe with other naked people while they scream Beat Poetry up at the ceiling.
While they were doing this, I was wasting a perfectly lovely Memorial Day bleeding words onto a screen.
And then, of course, there’s Dan Brown. Reason number 7 not to be a writer boils down to Dan Brown. Dan Brown. Dan Brown.
My well-read brother visited recently for my son’s graduation, and he left behind a pristine copy of Dan Brown’s latest, Inferno. Should I read it? If I hate it, that will be bad, because his success would be so unfair. But what if I love it? That would be even worse, because it would mean life is fair, and if you’re not successful, you deserve to not be successful. By the way, he looks like a really nice guy:
You can’t win when it comes to Dan Brown.