Why am I an author? You’re kidding right? Who wouldn't want a career that unless you’re JK Rowling ensures that you spend most of the month chowing your way through dry crackers and your mother’s fridge. Nah, really, it’s not that bad. But there are professions out there like accountants and lawyers, and investment banker thingies who get to drive around in shiny new Mercs and Beemers at age 25, why you’re still trying to fend off moochers who want you to run through their migraine-inducing theses, ‘because you’re so good with that English thing.’ Heck, Stephen King had to clean showers and scrape the maggots off of dirty table linens. Being an author ain’t pretty. It’s tiring, thankless, and requires you to have an entire imaginary world in your head without finding yourself heading to the nearest insane asylum.
So how come I do it? Why when I could be having children, or investing in the pension plan that still seems to be accepted as a wealthy man (whyohwhy), do I spend vast swathes of my free time exploring said imaginary worlds, and staring at my laptop screen?
Although I wish sometimes that I was an accountant (way more obvious career prospects), sometimes I’m glad I’m a writer. Because no-one tends to ask investment banker thingies why they became one because ‘man, that acquisition you just pulled off, was like, it touched my soul, truly.’ But they do ask writers.