A writer of middling success...

I always thought I'd be a successful writer. Ever since my grade six teacher transcribed my first ever poem onto flip chart paper and posted it in the school library, I have expected to make a living with my pen (and later my typewriter and even later my computer).

And I've had my successes. I've had a story place second in a national writing contest; I've won community newspaper writing awards; I've even authored, co-authored or contributed to a series of legal textbooks that sold quite well. And, most recently, a three-volume collection of children's stories I wrote to raise money to support a local historic and architectural landmark has done very well regionally here in Atlantic Canada.

But am I making a living as a writer? Not by a long shot.

This is not an easy business.

A friend of mine has just published the third in a series of medical mystery novels that have been well received and sold fairly well. He's a nice guy and a very good writer. I don't think his books are making him rich either.

I recent months, I've met several other people who have had their work published and all of them have to hold down a day job to pay the bills.

Unless you're J.K. Rowling, John Grisham or Stephen King, writing is no way to make a living.

So why do we write? Or, more particularly, why do I write?

I guess it's for the love of it. And for the tiny glimmer of hope that something I write will catch the public imagination (or at the very least a publisher's imagination) and give me at least a taste of what Rowling, Grisham and King have enjoyed.

And, like most other things, writing is about practice and work. So I will write this blog and keep working on my current projects. And hope that someone finds it interesting enough to read from time to time.

Because, as writers, that's all we really ask, isn't it?