In no other career does ‘going to work’ depend on having the muse Calliope descend and bless you with inspiration (okay, artists everywhere are afflicted with this too).
Yet ask most laypeople their opinion of writers and you’ll get a hazy hybrid of JK Rowling and a hobo. We’re either a few days away from publishing The Next Big Thing, or a few days away from destitution (yes, I know which analogy better suits).
Few other careers require an explanation or long-winded speech following the epitaph “I’m a [insert career here]”, yet should you utter “I’m a writer” you’re likely have to jump through the following hoops;
“Oh yeah? What have you written?” Prove it.
“No I mean what books have you written?” Because a writer only writes books.
“Do you make any money doing it?” Doubtful.
“Can I read something?” Let’s be clear, I don’t want to buy something…
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