I went to bed last night thinking about life.
Am I a writer, or am I not?
Looking at things realistically – I cannot live anywhere outside Thailand on what I make writing my own books. I couldn’t live in the USA on it. Not a chance.
I recently wrote a couple of books that I knew would take off.
I have a few books in me that I’d love to write – but if I can’t sell the ones that should really take off – then it seems pointless to write the books that are important to me because – knowing me – they are important ONLY to me.
As I slept I saw a math teacher I had in college. He was a silly, young guy, that couldn’t do shit-else, just teach math. He was good at it. He told us he stopped trying to do anything else because he realized he sucked at it. He just taught math and that’s what he lived with.
He told me in the dream… “You’re a writer.”
“You can’t do shit-else better than write.”
Might as well write, I thought when I awoke.
I’m OK with that.
But, the real issue is…
Write what I’m passionate about?
I think that will get me about as far as my anti-pedophiles book, “Thailand’s Sickest” which was 120,000+ words and went no fucking place at all.
Should I write the next book I’m passionate about?
I think life as a writer was easier back in the early 1900’s when Jack London was in Hawaii and writing his ass numb. What was there to write about at the time? What nobody knew about – the locals.
What else did he write about? Dogs.
What else? Being on a ship.
Those topics are all finished. There have been more books about all of them than ever needed to be printed.
What are the topics I could write about today and crush it?
I’ll be asking myself that in 39 minutes as I climb onto the mat for sleep tonight.