Do you ever find yourself sounding like your parents? It’s scary, man.
A year or so ago I did a bookstore appearance in Frisco, Tx. An aspiring writer who’d friended me online was there with her mother. During the Q&A, the mom raised her hand and said, “Don’t you think that someone who wants to be a writer should also get a degree in a field where they can actually make a living? To fall back on, I mean?” During this, her daughter glared at her mother in a way that said, My life is over, and it’s your fault.
“Great,” I said. “There’s no way I can answer this without getting into trouble.”
Last week, a boy emailed me to say, “I’m in middle school, and I would like to be a writer when I grow up. Can you tell me, on average, how much writers make in a year?” The boy was planning ahead for poverty.
And then, recently, at a writing workshop, a mother told me that her eleven-year-old daughter was a talented writer. She asked for my advice.
“Well,” I said, “it’s great that she’s already writing. She should keep that up, and read as much as possible, too. And she should choose a career that will support her while still allowing her time and energy to write.”
The mother looked taken aback, like I was in the business of killing dreams and kittens. “Don’t you think that would be very difficult?” she said. “To try to write while working a day job?”
Well, yes, I thought. It is difficult. And exhausting. I speak from experience.
“I want her to be able to focus on writing,” the mother went on. “We’re more than willing to support her until she gets established.”
As if that wouldn’t be a high pressure situation.
I’m not exactly a model of career planning and efficiency. I mean, really—my first degree is in philosophy. Finding it difficult to secure employment as a philosopher, I took a post-bacc and master’s in nutrition and practiced as a dietitian for years.
I began to write, yes, as a second job, although in the beginning I could have worked retail and made more reliable money.
I recommend that beginning writers plan for a day job for several reasons. Firstly, of course, to buy food, shelter, Internet access, books, and subscriptions to writing magazines. Secondly, day jobs provide an alternative place to achieve those small successes that keep us going. Maybe you’ve just received your twenty-fifth rejection for a novel that took three years to write. But maybe you’ve also completed a fabulous project at work or seen understanding kindle in a student’s eyes.
Planning ahead may mean you can choose a career that doesn’t suck up your time and wring out your soul, leaving you in no condition to write. Professionals are better able to request flexible schedules and can make more money doing part time work. Some writers choose to work in a field aligned with writing—teaching English, say, or business writing. Others prefer the perspective of doing something completely different. For some, the day job is raising children when someone else in the household brings in an income.
Don’t overlook the fact that other careers can provide you with grist for the writing mill. Lawyers and doctors often turn to writing fiction and nonfiction related to their areas of expertise.
But the most important reason for having a day job as a writer is that it prevents the quest for money from killing your love of the craft. It allows you to enjoy your writing, to follow the muse wherever it takes you. It gives you the freedom to become the best writer you can be without feeling like you constantly have to hustle for a buck.
It’s bad enough to have your work rejected without facing eviction as a result. And it’s easy to devalue your writing when you are desperate for a sale and it’s not happening. There’s so much we don’t control about success as a writer. Talent and hard work are necessary but not sufficient for success. Desperation can squeeze the joy right out of your art.
That said, if you want to transition into writing full time, do your homework, set up a plan and work it. It also helps to marry someone with insurance.
I used to do a lot of freelancing, which brought in some money. I made a conscious decision to turn away from that and focus on novels, even though I knew there was a chance I would never make a dime. But I knew that freelancing would always be a part time gig. I could never make enough freelancing to leave my day job.
That was in 2002. My first novel was published in 2006. My fourth book is coming out this week.
I left my day job in May, 2008.

Blimey, another Xmas already. Last one felt like only a couple of days ago. And I think I spent much more money on presents this year. I just hope everyone likes their gifts. There's nothing worse than when someone doesn't like your (expensive) present, or if they already have it. And you've got to stop people from buying themselves stuff in case they accidentally buy the thing you've bought for them.

I was so embarrased buying my sister the second Twilight book (complete with freaking flavour of the month Rob Pattinson plastered all over it), and the first film on DVD. Yeah, Stephanie Meyer has my money. Want to make an issue of it? The guy at the checkout at Borders said he was 'quite suspicious' about me buying Twilight! I mean, come on, it obviously isn't for me.

My brothers got PS3 games (pretty expensive as well. I hope they like them).

Ho ho ho. Merry Xmas.

Thanks to the peoples who have called, messaged and LJ-commented about my dad. Today when I was lamenting to Dad that I didn't know what else to buy him for Christmas, and then he says "don't spend too much money on me love, I just want you to understand where we're at with this cancer thing."

I guess Dad is realising that his prognosis is sort of grim. I might be freaking out for nothing. The radiation therapy could work a treat on Dad. One of us might be a perfect bone marrow match and the transplant will be a screaming success.

I'm sad because after getting past the bullshit of my teens and early twenties - my anger with Dad for leaving and the way he did it and all the cunty things he did - that I might lose him so quickly after finally developing a great friendship with him. I'm sad for Ben, who has never been close to Dad. I'm not ready to face losing a parent (but then who is?).

I have just returned from visiting dad at the hospital. It's pretty serious this time. The tumour has actually grown around his spinal cord and for this reason they cannot surgically remove it without cutting his spinal cord as well. It is in the lower part of his spine, around pelvis level(?). They will try to shrink it with radiation therapy, and twice a week he will have a lumbar puncture and they will drain some fluid off, as well as inject chemo directly into the spine as well. If this does not kill off the tumour the next step will be a bone marrow transplant. First Dad's brother and sister will be tested for compability, and if they are not a match they will try Ben and I. Failing that, they will have to do a search throughout Australia or possibly the rest of the world. If that doesn't work out - well, I think he'll be sort of fucked to put it bluntly.

On the slightly more positive side the pains he was having in his back and the pressure he felt in his skull (from the swollen optic nerves) have dimished slightly since his treatment started - he has had a second does of radiation therapy this morning - plus the steroids are helping too, although his vision has not improved. The doctor wanted to put Dad back on the glaucoma medication they had given him earlier in the week for his vision, but unfortunately he experienced the more severe side effects of the drug, being depression ("I was considering throwing myself under a bus") and night terrors - he attacked Margaret in his sleep. So yeah. I don't know any more than that and I'm sort of scared and sick to my stomach with it. Mardi's letters are a great comfort to me, as are the lovely supportive messages from all of my friends.

Fucking fucksticks. Dad had another MRI this morning and by this afternoon he was called back to the hospital because they had located a small tumour in his spine. They think the pressure of the tumour on the nerves is what is causing the problem with his vision - it's all connected. It also accounts for the shooting pains he has been getting in his back and up and down his legs, and today we have included tingling in the fingers. So he's back in hospital this afternoon, having had a dose of radiation therapy (first of 4 doses) and they will also give him steroids and chemotherapy.

On a slightly more pleasant note, before he got that hideous phone call from his doctor Dad gave me a folder that had been sent to him by the children of a woman in Canada named Tess whom my grandmother carried on a lifelong correspondence with. Uncle Charlie and Aunty Tess from Vancouver. I have a series of letters sent by Mardi to Aunty Tess starting from 1939 (when my grandmother was 18) until 1945, when my grandmother was in the army. I would really like to type up these letters to have a permanent record of them. Maybe even publish them.

Time for a Dad update.

So Margaret fecking cow never tells me anything. I phoned Dad on Friday, and he had no news to report except that his eyesight was still bad. So while Dad's eyesight has not improved, they started him on some glaucoma medication on the weekend because it contains anti-inflammatories. The side effect? CRIPPLED HIM. He cannot walk without severe pain and is using a walking stick. How did I find this out? I popped in to see her at her work on my way home from Sutherland on Monday and she's like "Hi lovey, how are you, are you still going to yoga, you're so good, by the way you should call your dad when you get home, he's not well."

So far he's had about a thousand MRI and CT scans and a lumbar puncture, and they have ruled out cancer, stroke (probably, Kitty reckons a CT scan would show evidence of it), glaucoma, cataracts, blood clots and witches' curses or hexes.

*facepalm*

Before we lay down for relaxation tonight, the hot guy in my yoga class joked that this was his favourite bit. I confessed to having nodded off briefly in one relaxation session. The teacher told us that "Mr Iyengar" was very hard and strict with students during class, but never ever woke up anyone who fell asleep during relaxation because obviously their bodies really needed it.

Less than 3 minutes into relaxation, hot guy fell asleep. I know this because he was lying next to me and he snores like a motherfucker.

There are no poisonous snakes in New Zealand, nor scorpions nor deadly spiders, either. That’s a plus, in my eyes.
Australia is different—it is home to more poisonous snakes, frogs, spiders, lizards, stingrays, jellyfish, vertebrate fish, and other dangerous creatures than anywhere else on earth.
It’s become politically incorrect in the U.S. to demonize animals—even dangerous predators—as vicious killers. We even tend to romanticize businesslike kill-or-be-killed lifestyles. Nothing personal, but I’m above you on the food chain.
Australians, on the other hand, seem to embrace the dangers of life in the bush with relish.
It reminds me of the old Crocodile Hunter show—“These are the most DANGEROUS animals in the world!” And it was true in his case—he died of a stingray sting in the chest.
While in Sydney, I stopped in at Galaxy Bookstore, a specialty sci-fi and fantasy bookstore. I was chatting with one of the clerks, and said I was just beginning a tour of Australia.
“Watch yourself out there,” she advised me. “There’s lots of snakes.” Meaning, don’t let down your guard, even though right now you’re in the middle of a major metropolitan area.
Turned out she knows what she’s talking about. She’s specializing in reptile studies at university. Seems like a good field to go into down under.
We visited Sydney Wildlife World, which was teeming with deadly creatures—dangerous birds, snakes, lizards, insects—you name it. In case you missed anything, lurid warning signs highlighted the most dangerous creatures on display.
Not enough worries? Across the way was the Sydney Aquarium, displaying deadly denizens of the deep.
Whatever the topic, it seemed to stray onto deadly subject matter. The guide at the seemingly low-risk koala breakfast explained to us the difference between poison and venom. “Venom works through the bloodstream,” she said. “It’s injected. Poison, on the other hand, can be ingested in different ways. We can touch a poison frog, eat a poison mushroom, breath in poisonous gases or brush a poison plant. Got that?”
Remember the Foolhardy Family? They wouldn’t last a minute in Australia. Get past the fauna, and the flora and the terrain is dangerous, too—blistering deserts, unpredictable seas and shipwreck coasts, bottomless crevasses, unstable cliffs, and poisonous plants. Of all the rogue introduced plants, it seems the only ones that have caught on are the noxious ones.
I’m a writer. My fertile imagination tells me there’s danger everywhere. I hiked through Alaska, singing at the top of my lungs, to drive off the bears. I walked through Florida wetlands scanning the underbrush for wolf spiders and alligators. I hiked through the “national forest” – ha! – desert in New Mexico, my eyes darting to either side, searching for rattlesnakes.Never thought I'd have to watch out for the lizard in the laundry room!
My advice: Watch yourself out there—it’s a dangerous world.