As bizarre as this sounds, I feel hopeful after reading this blog. I am not yet 50 but I am also a ‘failed’ writer. I’ve never published anything, I was never paid to write anything and I run a blog that almost no one reads. But I will press on and write about anything and everything that comes to my mind. There is something ‘noble’ about this kind of ‘failure’. I will persevere and press on because it’s what I do and I am in a privileged position to do so. There are many who are denied the privilege and the right to express their thoughts freely.
Vincent Van Gogh, after all, was seen as a failure during his lifetime.
At the age of 50, I am a failed writer. Except for a few articles on CounterPunch, everything I’ve published has been self-published. I’ve worked tens of thousands of hours, written hundreds of thousands of words, and have never made a dime. Had I spent the same amount of time at a minimum wage retail job, I’d be rich, or at least a shift-supervisor at Starbucks. I haven’t been able to find an audience. You probably won’t even read this.
So why don’t I quit?
I tried. From the age of 25 to the age of 50, I had one goal In life, to cure myself of the urge to write. But I failed. Let me explain.
The urge to write should never be confused with the ability to make a living by writing, or even the ability to express yourself by putting words down on paper. T. S…
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