What am I worried about? What about writing makes me insecure? Tons, really. Enough to make for an entire IWSG post.
My dream has always been to have a full-time living as a writer, a humor writer, to be exact. I work hard, hoping to try and make that dream come true, but as I start dipping my toes into the writing life, worries rear their ugly heads.
What if I become a big success? What if I make enough money that some of my deadbeat family members start to ask to borrow money? I mean, sure, I’d help my younger sister, who of course wouldn’t ask but could probably use the funds, but there’s no way I’m giving money to Cousin Steve, not with his “recreational” drinking problem and habit of picking up girls at the post office. But I’m sure that Aunt Clarissa will start bothering my mom about it, about how even though I’m successful, I’m “too good” to reach out to family members who could “use a hand,” and “remember how Charley and Steve used to play together and were so close during summer family reunions? So why would she turn her back on him now?” Once I’m a big success, I am totally blocking her emails, and I don’t care what Grandma has to say about it.
Now that I think of it, I don’t even know if Aunt Clarissa counts as a worry since she makes everyone in the family insecure.
What if I write a novel that becomes wildly successful, but it’s polarizing, like Fifty Shades of Grey or Twilight? I mean, I want to be proud of my work, but I also want to be successful, so does it matter if some parts of it are a little stupid? Who am I kidding – of course it matters! I don’t want people acting like I’m the latest Justin Bieber or Iggy Azalea, just a cheap flash in the pan with a lab-created body.
I like the idea of a gravity-defying body, but once you’re famous, you have to start interacting with idiots on their smartphones and end up with a Twitter Q&A session that goes as badly as E.L. James’s did, but really, what was she thinking when she agreed to that? I don’t want to have to defend what I write to my snotty former English Department head, although she may just be jealous of my fame. That’s okay, then. I guess if people say something negative, I’ll reassure myself that they’re just jealous of me, and I’ll say it in a British accent, because everything sounds better in British. That’s probably why E.L. James is so successful, you know – the accent.
What if other writers accuse me of plagiarizing their writing? I’ll have to lawyer up and defend myself. That would be a nightmare. I mean, odds are good that someone might be writing about the same idea that I am at the same time, so I’m going to have to expect it, those letters full of accusations and misspellings. I’ll just handle that by never telling anyone about my ideas, not even my cat, Cujo. I don’t think he listens when I talk anyway, but I still won’t tell him.
There are so many other concerns – should I live in a gated community? Should I drive a Lexus or a Jaguar? Do I really want to pal around with Hollywood types, particularly someone like Shia LeBouf, that pretentious putz? No way, and definitely not someone who’s faux-intellectual, like James Franco. He looks like a sex offender with facial hair. The last thing I need is my fans thinking I want approval from people like that.
And fans – what if my fans are weirdos like stalkers? What if they show up on my front porch at 3 am, wanting to hang out? What if Cousin Steve shows up with the stalkers? Because that’s totally something he’d do.
The gated community is a must, along with a black Cadillac Escalade with tinted windows. Steve can’t find me to beg for money with those obstacles, not with his drinking problem.