“You’re not letting people read it as you write it. Nobody has ever read what you’re doing. It could be terrible. It could be brilliant. And you start to think, ‘Oh God, this is a complete piece of shit that
couldn’t be published—nobody is going to read it.’ But then you have a sandwich and go, ‘I am a genius and I’m going to win the Booker Prize.’”
That’s a quote from “My Book Deal Ruined My Life,” one of the more truthful (and entertaining, because it’s so true) articles I’ve read about writing in a long time. There are people out there who are probably responding to this piece in a very snarky way, as in “Wah! It must be so hard to have a book deal. Life is rough.”
I have never had a book deal. But I have written a book, and I have read enough about writers and met enough writers with book deals to know that it is not all sunshine and rose petals in the world of professional writing. Writing is hard. Writing is lonely. Writing doesn’t pay shit. Book advances are small — only the unusually large ones get reported on. Anyone who is surprised by the writers in this article and their woes is probably not considering the profession of writing in a realistic way.
For some reason, reading this article just made me wish I had a book deal even more.
Deranged? Possibly. No one said writers were sane people.