My first five years as a writer, I won a regional Emmy and an AP award. For journalism. But I didn’t make a dime on any of what I wrote to earn those awards. I decided to ditch the trophy-chasing (they didn’t lend me the credibility I thought they would) and chase that sweet, sweet cash.

People stopped reading me altogether. I’m lucky if I get maybe 50 pairs of eyes on anything I write, anywhere I submit it. Social media doesn’t help. Personal contact (email, text, etc) doesn’t help. Turns out, being published in a paper or writing scripts for news documentaries didn’t pay, but at least I was READ. Now, I’m neither.

I get that chasing results can set you up for failure, but it’s not like Picasso, Rembrandt, or Warhol painted so they could decorate their basements. Creating art that is never seen is disheartening. Trying to make a living of it and getting nowhere is rough on the soul.

I don’t want to be a writer anymore, but I’m not sure I want to write anymore, either.