For Mike: What Makes a Writer?

I just finished reading Mike's letter of hiatus on Associated Content. Truthfully, I was saddened and disappointed in all of us. I was struck by how you felt that you were different from those of us who make a living writing, and feel the need to pontificate.

Mike, I think it is time to share a little about my life.

My father, an ex-con, met my dancing-girl mother many many moons ago somewhere in Ohio. After a rocky relationship and the apparent death of my full brother in an auto accident my parents changed their names and went into hiding. Why? All I know is the story they told my relatives when they resurfaced: There was a car accident with a drunk driver and my father took revenge with a tire iron. What happened to the 18-month little boy's body (or the drunk driver) is anybody's guess. Perhaps my parents placed him in a shallow grave somewhere alongside the road as they ran? All I have for evidence are the fake IDs they used during this time.

Both of my parents were alcoholics. I remember sitting on bar stools in the corner bar drinking "Jack and Coke," puffing cigarette butts and sneaking drinks out of my parent's beer cans.

Eventually an accident left my father crippled and he turned even more to alcohol. We ended up in the mountains of Eastern Kentucky making ends meet by running a card game on weekends.

The yard would be filled with cars on those nights and I would make money by running errands to these vehicles, making sandwiches or sitting in on card games when players had to use the bathroom.

Many times I had to fast talk my way from being dragged into a car by some sicko. I knew if I screamed my father would kill them, and then I would be without a father, so I suffered in silence.

Many times I watched my parents try to kill each other in their violent alcohol-fueled battles.

Dad killed another guy and we had to leave that area, an area that was my whole world. By then I could cuss like a sailor and had the attitude to back it up. I was a real foul-mouthed piece of work who was trading odd jobs for cigarettes and beer from my own parents by then!

Dad died of cancer before the courts could decide what to do with him for killing his best friend. I turned to the only thing I knew--alcohol. Ended up pregnant with my own mother calling friends and offering money to drag me to an abortion clinic. I was considered the slut of the south.

Every attempt to improve my life went awry. I got married to someone I thought was a nice man only to discover his whole life was a lie. By the time I figured that much out I was trapped several miles from town without so much as a penny to my name and too much pride to call for help.

I dug out of that mess. I took some registered dogs that were being given away at the Wal Mart Parking Lot and sold enough puppies to buy a trailer. When people advertised free puppies I would take the whole litter and place them on consignment with a buddy of mine at the flea market even!

I even persuaded that jerk I married to go to school and become a truck driver, all so I could move out while he was over the road, which is exactly what I did.

I'm still battling with that man over our youngest. He promised me the only way I would get away is if one of us died, and I believe he is right.

Anyhow, I have a high school diploma and several failed attempts at college. I did manage to get a diploma for computer repair, however!

When people try to relate that have had normal lives I am honestly lost. What am I supposed to do when they start swapping childhood stories? Half the time they don't even believe me!

Like the time I met a guy who kept his eye in a glass jar. Or the bike rides several miles out to a farm when I was in first grade. No one believes that my parents cared so little that their tiny kid went all over creation with nothing for protection besides a mongrel dog!

What about being used to hide beer from the cops? They would toss blankets on top of it and place me on top--telling the cops they had built a special bench so I could see better!

Our first stereo was stolen from who knows where--my parents were proud of that fact!

When the liquor stores would become suspicious that Father was purchasing entirely too much alcohol for one person, he would give me the money, a neighbor the keys and I would be driven to the liquor store. The neighbor would be given just enough money to make the purchase, and all change given back to me to deliver back to father with the alcohol. I received a can of beer and a pack of cigarettes in payment. I can't remember how young I was when we started doing that.

I could tell them about the time I pulled a bead on my own uncle in fear that he would kill my mother, putting the rifle away after he backed down. Mother's back was to me, but Uncle saw. I put it away before she made it back into the house. Don't think they would believe that, either!

Most of the jobs I have had are considered even lower than a factory job--restaurant work, fast food at that. The hours are flexible and the work plentiful enough, even if the pay stinks.

Now, I make money writing. Do I make $300 a week? Ha! I guess I could if I worked harder but I don't. I have a shingle outside to take in computers for repair besides the writing work, because frankly I am sick and tired of this stupid rat race and too onery to kiss some-one's behind!

I live in a old trailer I traded my furniture for on a rented lot with as many mosquitoes as there are blades of grass, but the lot rent is cheap enough and the neighbors leave me alone. I can live my trailer-trash life in style, writing about whatever I feel like and living on a shoestring fending off yet another volley from a stupid ex that will NOT go AWAY!

Life is what you make of it. Like one family member has stated, if there were a crown for sh*tt*est life I would probably qualify but you know what? I don't care.

I make lemonade of my life, posting my cheapness for all the world to see and celebrate! I use blogs and Associated Content for therapy that pays me instead of the other way around!

I know what it is like to be the outsider. I've been one so long I cannot conceive of being otherwise. I do visit Starbucks on occasion, however--one of my few treats!

I don't know who has issues with you, but I do know this--don't let them stop you from being yourself. Celebrate what makes you different!

Mike you have such a blessed life! You have a wonderful wife, a great home, skills and talents that others would kill to have! That "measly" $300 a week paycheck? I'll trade ya (smile). Eh, actually I wouldn't. I like my cheap, retarded life!

Being a writer is NOT about making a living writing.. most writers making a living on it will admit that they are just hacks trying to make a buck. The true geniuses are the ones with the story in their heart that yearns to come out--like what I hear in your music!

Create because you WANT to Mike, not because it makes you this or this.. and definitely NOT because it makes you part of the Starbucks set. Honestly, McDonald's food is cheaper and the wifi just as free--perfect for us crazy writers tired of being stuck in the house all day!

I wish you well on your hiatus but I wanted you to know that writing is not something a certain "class" of people do.. it is something that comes from the heart. You don't believe me? Go read Donald Pennington's work! If anyone on Associated Content graduated from the school of hard knocks it was him. Like me, he has lived in his car, unlike me he has stayed in homeless shelters and pasted it all here for the world to see! You go read HIM to learn about a real writer!

My sister is an artist. She is poor as a church mouse, scraping by on a disability check, but by golly her work beats a lot of people's I've seen out here! Grandma Moses wasn't rich or high-falutin' either and look how famous her work is now!

As for me--I honestly don't know what to consider myself. Crazy cheap trailer trash mama? Why not--I'm game!

I'm a writer cause I want to write: you are a musician because that is what you are driven to do. When you write because you want to again, you will be a writer the same as me and the countless others out here in the world. You may not make a living at the keyboard, but how you make your living does NOT an artist make! Most often the true artists are the ones who don't make a living from their craft. Don't sell yourself short--you have more talent than anyone knows...