Hope Is a Thing with Feathers

Allison asked me recently why I thought we do this, the writing thing. If we’re fundamentally insane to think that we could get that brass ring we’re seeking. I said “yes.”

Crazy in a good way maybe. But still crazy.

I recall some of the writers at the UW English Department throwing around the statistic that there are as many writers making a living at writing as there are pro-football players. Which sounds plausible. And no, I didn’t even attempt to fact-check that one.

It’s probably a decent analogy in that the miniscule proportion of football players who make it to the pro ranks does nothing to deter the dream for millions of football-playing young men.

But that doesn’t make it a rational thing.

If you want to play the odds, you become a civil servant. Once in, you’re set forever. And that’s exactly what you get. If you’re willing to work hard and want money, you go for the big money businesses. Those are rational, sane choices.

Which is why most writers have other identities: teachers, professors, HVAC marketers, IT professionals, university book buyers. Even environmental consultants. We’re playing it safe, working the day jobs, keeping the finances in order.

Nobody sees how crazy we are inside. How we obsess and fret. How we nurse our dreams in the dark confines of our hearts. Feeding them little bits of hope now and again. Nursing them back to life when they get crushed and bruised.

The dreams belong only to us, after all.