My kids grew up on a golf course. They were told, just go out there and master it, and you will have easy money, an awesome work/pay ratio. They are from a family of golf champions, and the opportunity is right there….I asked my daughter today why she declined, and, with my help, said it was because she didn’t like golf. Potential fame and fortune was irrelevant because she didn’t like doing it. Yet most people do jobs they don’t like, for minimum wage. It reminded me of my soul buddy, Charles Bukowski, who (I can’t find the quote) said he went without food to buy pencils, so in love was he with the art of writing. This reinforces it, says plainly how love/dedication is the key:
so you want to be a writer?
if it doesn’t come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don’t do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it for money or
fame,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don’t do it.
if it’s hard work just thinking about doing it,
don’t do it.
if you’re trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.
if you have to wait for it to roar out of you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.
This is why I gave up on poetry and fiction – relative to my hero, I didn’t care at all.
My “art” comes from minimal effort. I think I achieve well from that, but if I accidentally had success, I would be embarassed.
I know I could write that epic poem, classic novel, intricate screenplay, if I devoted my life to it. Eminently capable.
But I don’t LOVE IT. And that is the key.
Last week I was reading a book, it mentioned a woman with flaxen hair, and I realised I had read this description many times in my life and not cared to know what it meant. In my mind’s eye, I think each character had black hair (not pale yellow, chestnut or straw-coloured). I didn’t care enough to know. I don’t love writing enough. And I knew that from Bukowski decades ago, because I choose food over pencils.