Becoming a writer

What does it take to become a writer? Do I have to give up everything to obtain the level of professional writer? This thought comes to mind every now and again, whenever I wish I was writing for a career instead of whatever I'm currently doing (which currently, and for the last six years, has been an IT manager and an institution of higher education). And again today, while taking care of my daughter on a day when my fiance was working, we watched 'Moulin Rouge.' The thought of becoming the penniless writer, sacrificing everything to begin working on a novel, came to mind.

I don't think I could give up my current lifestyle in order to succeed as a writer. It's a sacrifice that I couldn't make at this point in my life. And yet, there are so many stories trapped in my mind that I want to put onto paper, that it's tearing at my heart and mind. Whenever I get an idea for a story I jot it down on the closest piece of paper, and set it on my desk for future reference. The problem is that my current life and lifestyle don't allow me to write any good prose. My career in the IT world completely drains all creativity from my soul, and life with a three-year-old daughter saps all energy that I would have to do anything creatively. When was the last time I picked up a guitar to play? It's been about nine months (part of that was due to a broken arm too). But with a child, there really is little time for personal agendas.

And so I look back to when I was a writer, or at least the closest thing to being a writer. My last year in college, when I was taking several writing classes, and was part of a writing community. I would spend several hours a night alone in a small bedroom, of a two bedroom apartment, computer in front of me, and a white bunny at my feet, with the words flowing easily from my mind to my fingers. Usually a glass of wine at my side. I wrote an entire chapter of 'The Canterbury Tales,' in perfect Rhyme Royale, in one night 500 lines, in just a couple hours. I wrote one of my best stories while sitting in a hallway in a notebook, with few revisions needed before it was accepted into a rather prestigious class. And now... even if I find a few spare moments to write (such as now, kid is asleep on the couch, Col is out), I write and in my mind, it feels like I'm writing at an elementary level. I don't consider this good. It's basically a waste of my time.

And so I sit and lament, and wonder what could have been, or what could be, if I would just sacrifice what I currently have. Could I be a good writer? Who reads stories or novels anymore? It seems that people write to make money, or make their stories into films. I wouldn't care. If I could keep my current lifestyle and career, but also be a best selling author who didn't make a dime of money, I would sign up today. I wouldn't write for money, I just want to be known as a writer. I want to go to readings, where scholars talk and debate on what I was thinking when I wrote it. I want to lecture at universities, and have undergrads grill my thought process.

But no one cares about the author anymore. It's a lost art. And so I sit in my living room, fireplace aglow, blackened TV across the room, kid asleep to the right, pint of stout to the left.