Writers write. It’s what they’re here for.
But they do need money. To pay their bills.
But somehow i feel when you mix something pure – like writing or painting or some other craft – with money or fame or all those worldly pleasures, the craft somehow gets compromised – it loses its fire.
Writers are like creators – they’re of the species that exist to create, to inspire, to change. But… this species needs to survive – and for that it needs money, it needs clothes, it needs food. And these needs, at some levels, tarnish us, our core, our voice, our writing.
Imagine writing for the sake of writing – next to an open window. Or in a wood. Or, on an open terrace. Imagine writing for the pure delight of your soul. Imagine being that true writer that you so desperately want to be.
Writing tweaked to please others don’t excite me much – but this is something i have to do every single day. I am not very sure but if you continue with this thing, sooner or later you’d perish.
I’m clueless on this writing and money thing.
What about you?