Literature Is Not Dead

To many, authors are a magical species living on a distant planet full of money and free time and creative fulfillment. People want to go to this planet. When they hear that I am a writer, they often gush out stories of their own, about how they used to write, or how they write poetry, or how they have this great idea for a novel.

I do my best not to discourage people when they say these things. Writing always offers personal growth, and in that way, writing is like running. It’s a wonderful thing for anyone to do. It’s also important, though, to understand what kind of running one plans to do.

Most people who write, write like I run. I run a few times a week, though sometimes I’ll go weeks without running. I enter local 5 and 10K runs for fun, and concern myself with my personal goals, knowing I don’t train hard enough to win or place, or to ever pretend that I will make a profession out of running.

To make a profession out of writing takes the same serious determination and dedication my neighbor has. She’s an ultra-runner. She runs every day, in rain, at night, after a long day of work. Her diet, and even her social life to some extent, revolve around her running. On the weekends, she spends half days running thirty miles in the nearby state parks.

So I avoid talking about running with her. I am many planets from her’s, just as the checkout lady, the coworker, the guy selling me life insurance, are all long astronomical distances from people who make a living writing.

I only make a small portion of my living writing, and so I know the distances involved. I am somewhere in the cold depths of outer space, puttering towards a distant planet. It is frustrating when people who misunderstand the distances involved believe they can hop over the gap to join me. They are not that kind of runner.