I retrieved this essay for discussion because of the previous thread "Can I make a living writing" and I had another chat with a writer today who inspired my remembrance;
My god, I've had a few discussions over the months with writers who are destitute and living in shelters or sharing living arrangements with other people.
I’m sickened by this…
I’ve heard such stories for many years. I closed my ears because I wasn’t one of them.
I wasn’t sickly or poor. I paid no attention to their plight. Why should I? I am of sound financial status, beget a few times when I struggled to find suitable work, but I have a means to support myself. I don’t suffer such angst for this profession that I’d live in a homeless shelter until my work sells. I don’t folly about with a dream of hitting it big as a writer. But such people do, as I now know, and I am ashamed at my cavalier attitude about this preoccupation for writing.
Such is my pain tonight. I grieve for this poor fellow who desires so much more from his craft than I. This homeless man, with such courage and conviction, is worthy of more than I can ever hope to offer.
Yet, I can’t help but feel pity for him and I – who has lost much more than either has ever imagined.
So, I weep tonight for us – poor writers who are without home and love. But I also cherish this gentle spirit which as kept my poor friend warm, happy, and content to live as I had not thought possible.
I write, as true, to myself and others that we never forget those whose sacrifice is inspired by a noble thought.