I’ve mentioned before about how much of my career has been defined by extraordinary luck. I was just reflecting on this again.
As a writer, one dreams of awards, of #1 NYT bestsellers, of the Hollywood money copter appearing and dumping barrels of cash. Nice enough fantasies, but some things—I’ll leave it to you, gentle reader, to supply the specifics—are better left as fantasies.
For reasons I don’t feel like going into right now, I’ve recently been in touch with a number of other writers, many of whom are significantly more successful than I am. They have layers between them and the rest of the world. They need these layers so they aren’t bothered so much they can’t do their work. I don’t need layers. My email address is fairly public, I’m active on my Facebook page and Twitter (and here) and interact with people as much as I feel like. I don’t have to buffer myself. And, with all of that, I make a living. Thanks to the level of success I’ve had (and to Patreon, and the amazing people who’ve been kind enough to kick in), I’m caught up on rent, I can buy groceries and tobacco, and I can even take vacations once in a while. Would I like to be able to buy a Tesla? Sure. But it would come with all sorts of things I don’t want, things that would be bad for me. In the worst case, I’d have to isolate myself at conventions. That would suck.
I’ve been fighting off mild depression for the last year. Shit happens, I’ll get over it. But it helps to remind myself that, with one thing and another, I have stumbled into the perfect place. I can write here, and enjoy the people and things I love while doing it. Overall, I’m one lucky son of a bitch.