In pursuing the dream of supporting myself as a writer, I’ve unwittingly become a kind of hero to some. No one’s actually come up and asked for an autograph, but the frequency with which questions about my success occur makes it feel as if my friends are trying to live their own dreams through me. At first, it was flattering. But it seems there’s a certain amount of judgment attached to the vicarious life.
I am sick of this question: “Are you syndicated yet?”
And this one: “How many newspapers carry your column?”
People genuinely want to know how I’m doing. But too often, these questions lead to the litany of advice, the list of things I should be doing and am not. And won’t.
I am satisfied to wait, rather than turn even this — the secret pleasure of creation — into a 9-to-5 occupation.
I am satisfied to wait