It occurs to me that so much of what indie writers do is putting on a show for appearances. Here’s a sale that I’m putting on with my non-existent publicist. Here’s a guest-post I did on some other schmoe’s blog. Here’s some “content” I created; I’m a “content creator”.
I’m sick of being that guy.
More to the point, I’m sick of having nothing to write on my blog, because there’s nothing to say between books except “yes, I’m still working on the next one”.
So let’s clear that crap away and get down to the real shit, shall we? Let’s talk about the shocking, human secret behind it all:
My name is Brandon. I’m 24 years old, and I live with my parents. I’m poor, in college, and I work in a warehouse.
We store motorcycle parts there. I’m a picker/packer. That means I pick parts from the warehouse, and then I pack them into boxes, and then I ship those boxes off to other warehouses. I work full-time, for $10 an hour, and spend a lot of time thinking about how terrible it is that landing such a crappy job feels (“in this economy?”) like winning the lottery.
Speaking of the lottery: I play every Wednesday and Saturday. The Pennsylvania Powerball. There’s a billboard which stands above the warehouse parking lot, showing the current jackpot, and it starts at 40 million. Sometimes it gets as high as 250 before somebody hits it and it resets back to 40. Whenever it resets, everybody in the warehouse says, “Damn, I guess someone hit it,” and they sound really disappointed, which seems odd to me, because 40 million still seems like a lot of money. I’d sure like to win it. I don’t really want to be rich, though. Mostly I just want to quit working in the warehouse, so I can spend that time writing, instead.
I’ve been writing since I was 8 years old. I used to write about robots and guys with huge swords. Now I write about dwarves and stuffed animals. I write every day, though never as much as I’d like to, and I imagine I’ll keep writing until the day I die, even if not many people ever read what I write. Though I wish they would. And I hope they do. I hope that one of these days, my book explodes behind my back, and I wake up to find out that I’m internet-famous. Then I’ll waltz into that warehouse with my bohemian chin held high and tell those sorry, toiling bastards, “Hey guys, I’m internet famous.” I think they’ll be really happy for me. Maybe I’ll bring in donuts.
There’s a lot of big stuff coming down the pipe for me, and lately I feel so busy that I can barely keep my head on straight. But I’ve got a Five Year Plan ™ to become a For-Real Full-Time Writer, and I hope you’ll all come along for the ride.