Small Potatoes

Generally, writers (of books) get paid twice a year.  Most publishers cut royalty checks to cover sales over a six month period . . . and can usually, by contract, keep said royalties for three months or so before actually transferring from the publisher's account to the writer's.  Naturally, any writer who is expecting to live a well-rounded life, or to have financial security, or maintain a hope in eating had better have a "long-range" plan AND learn to how to gum a celery stick.

Because of this semi-annual paycheck, writers tend to huddle in pathetic little masses.  You can recognize them because of their droopy-eyes (no sleep) and their penchant for sympathy.  You'll find them standing in a line at Wendy's asking questions like:  "What have you got to eat for under a dollar?"  Book writers also wear the same underwear day after day and usually have wretched sex lives.  Their spouses are typically even more pathetic.  They drive old cars.  They drink water in restaurants.  They bite their nails down to the quick and vacation by setting up a tent in the front yard.  Some writers stick their heads into ovens.  Others threaten to leave book writing behind and go into marketing or advertising.  The real losers move to Indiana and write on seventeen year old Compaq computers and store their work on floppy disks.  They eat licorice.

Last month, when publishers were finally sending out royalty checks for the half year, I found myself talking to two other authors.  One of these pathetic souls (even more pathetic than ME) lamented his royalty check with a half chuckle and a joke.

"If you don't mind my asking," I said, "How much did you earn in royalties these past six months?"

"I got a check for $20," he said.

"Buy yourself a milkshake," I told him.  "You deserve it."  I meant it. 

"That's some reward for writing a book, huh?" he lamented.

Indeed.  Small potatoes.  Little nuts.  Which always leads me back to the question my wife has been asking me for the past twenty-seven years . . . "Why do you even bother?"

Hey, it's a dirty, lonely, freakin' job that somebody has to do.  I figure, one of these days I'll find something larger than a potato in my mailbox.  Those publishers have to pay out some day.  And the last time I checked, potatoes can multiply.