From Blue Like Jazz by Donald Miller
“Writers don’t make any money at all. We make about a dollar. It is terrible. But then again we don’t work either. We sit around in our underwear until noon then go downstairs and make coffee, fry some eggs, read then paper, read part of a book, smell the book, wonder if perhaps we ourselves should work on our book, smell the book again, throw the book across the room because we are quite jealous that any other person wrote a book, feel terribly guilty about throwing the schmuck’s book across the room because we secretly wonder if God in heaven noticed our evil jealousy, or worse, laziness. We then lie across the couch facedown and mumble to God to forgive us because we are secretly afraid He is going to dry up all our words because we envied another man’s stupid wors. And for this, as I said before, we are paid a dollar. We are worth so much more.”
You should know that over the past few weeks I have visited 5 countries in Europe. It was cold, fascinating, and I’m glad to be back in America.
I am written out. Sorry.