On Being a Failed Writer

At the age of 50, I am a failed writer. Except for a few articles on CounterPunch, everything I’ve published has been self-published. I’ve worked tens of thousands of hours, written hundreds of thousands of words, and have never made a dime. Had I spent the same amount of time at a minimum wage retail job, I’d be rich, or at least a shift-supervisor at Starbucks. I haven’t been able to find an audience. You probably won’t even read this.

So why don’t I quit?

I tried. From the age of 25 to the age of 50, I had one goal In life, to cure myself of the urge to write. But I failed. Let me explain.

The urge to write should never be confused with the ability to make a living by writing, or even the ability to express yourself by putting words down on paper. T. S. Eliot is rumored to have answered the suggestion that “most editors are failed writers” with the quip that “yes, but so are most writers.” For many working journalists, writing is both a day job, and an impossible dream. Most people at Buzzfeed don’t want to be writing listicles. I doubt even the most cynical daily newspaper reporter grew up dreaming that someday he would be writing hit pieces on a mentally ill homeless man for the New York Post, or smearing a teenager the local police for the Indianapolis Star to protect the local police. It’s simply a way to pay the bills until the big story that will make you another Woodward or Bernstein comes along, or until a Hollywood studio buys your film script. I am not being a moral scold. If I had the social connections to get hired by Vice, Buzzfeed, or the NY Post, I’d probably jump at the opportunity. What’s more, some of the best writers in American history have written for money, and only for money. Ulysses Grant, for example, started writing his memoirs in 1884 after he was diagnosed with throat cancer. Sick, destitute after losing most of his assets in a Ponzi scheme, the 18th President of the United States wrote mainly to to pay old debts, and to leave enough money left over to provide for his wife and family. Yet the Personal Memoirs of Ulysses S. Grant remains the greatest autobiography ever written by an American President. It’s so good that, to this day, there are conspiracy theories that it had actually been ghostwritten by his good friend Mark Twain.

In my mid-20s, I decided to become a novelist, mainly because I realized I was unfit to do anything else. For a middle-aged man, 25 seems young, but let’s face it. If you’re not already on a solid career track, or have some kind of specialized, highly sought after skill, you’re going to end up struggling for the rest of your life. I’m 50 years old, but 25 doesn’t even seem that long ago. It feels like yesterday. Not only had I run out of career options, I had never had very many in the first place. I had been slotted. I had found my place, and I didn’t like it. I was already picking up the pieces of my broken life, wondering what happened.

For most of my childhood, I had planned to join the United States Marine Corps, just like my father. I gave up on the idea when I became socialist in college. How could I make a career out of defending the American empire?

Note: I was also soft, and weak. A summer at McGuire Air Force base at a Civil Air Patrol encampment had already convinced me that I wasn’t cut out for the military life. But “I declined to serve the interests of American imperialism” sounds much better than “I was scared that when I got to basic training the other guys would call me a fag and beat me up.” So that’s the version of the story I usually tell.

Later on, I toyed with the idea of becoming a high school English teacher or a college professor, but I had been miserable in high-school. Why would I have wanted to spend the rest of my life in a place I already knew I hated? Tenure at Harvard would have been great. But I couldn’t even understand Foucault or Derrida, let alone teach them. I did not have the academic ability to become a lawyer, or the temperament to become a political activist. So at the age of 23, I dropped out of graduate school, and got an entry-level job as a “Production Editor” for a small, scientific publishing in New York City. I made a little under $15,000/yr preparing scientific manuscripts to be published in books that almost nobody would ever read.

It didn’t take me very long to decide that since I was unlikely to get a better job, I could at least have a better identity. “Writer” sounded good, but there was only one problem: I couldn’t write. Not a novel, not an essay, not a review, not a short story. I could barely even write a note on a birthday card. Indeed, I spent most of my 20s thinking of myself as a writer, but unable to come up with anything much more than a diary, which I’m glad I lost. The only thing I remember about it is that it wasn’t worth keeping. I had a massive case of writer’s block, which correlated to my inability to relate to other people, or get my life together. Nevertheless, not being able to write was a good also excuse to stay put. My entry-level publishing job didn’t pay much, and it didn’t have much room for advancement, but it also didn’t involve much work. The hours were steady, and I never had to worry about getting cheated out of my wages. These days it almost seems like a good job. In any event, I decided that since I didn’t know how to write, I would use the time after work to teach myself how to write. Progress was slow, but I did make it. I read just about everything I could, and did manage to fill in the gaps in my education that I had noticed during my abortive two years of graduate school. Eventually I found my subject, failure. I identified with the narrator in Dostoevsky’s Notes from the Underground, and with the hero of George Orwell’s early novel Keep the Aspidistra Flying. Unlike Orwell’s Gordon Comstock, however, I couldn’t find a way back into the lower-middle-class, and unlike Dostoevsky’s underground man, I couldn’t make failure sound interesting.

So I concluded that if I was going to write about failure, I had to fail a lot more.

After I got fired from my job as a Production Editor – It was a combination of incompetence and just a very obvious lack of interest in my work. – I failed at just about everything I tried. I couldn’t make friends, establish a relationship with a woman, break away from, or maintain friendly relations with my parents, complete psychoanalysis, or hold a job. Over the next few years, I worked as a telemarketer, fish gutter, a sheet metal worker, a data entry specialist at the last unionized textile company in Seattle, an administrative assistant, a sales associate at an office supply store, a sheet metal worker, a day laborer at a recycling plant, a low-level systems administrator for a small ISP, and a customer-service support technician for three failed e-commerce companies, and a barista at Starbucks.

The last job turned out be a lucky accident, since it provided me with the material for the first thing I ever wrote worth reading, a mildly successful knockoff of Notes from the Underground, a long short story called “How To Under Ring.” I am a bitter Starbucks barista, the “underground man” serving coffee and pulling espresso while I wait for the chance to be put on a cash register. Then I can follow his true calling of small-time embezzler and petty thief. How much is fiction, and how much is autobiography I leave to any readers, and potential employers, to decide. These days it seems dated, and almost cliché, and I can just see the typical social justice warrior’s reaction. “Angry young white male from a middle-class family hates his job and can’t get laid, so he acts like an asshole. Cry me a river.” But, at the time, actually finishing a short story felt like vindication.

I also concluded that since I had actually proven I could finish a piece of writing, but knew deep down inside that I didn’t really have much talent, I’d try in earnest to quit trying to write. But I failed. The biggest thing I failed at in my 30s and 40s was my renewed effort to quit writing. I studied programming and information technology, got certifications from Microsoft, Comptia, and Cisco. It worked for awhile. Jumping from one e-commerce job to another left me little time to think about writing, but then the bottom fell out of the tech industry in March of 2000. By the time the tech economy got going again, I was too old, and too poorly trained to get back in. I tried to replace writing fiction with a more harmless creative pursuit, photography, but I was even worse at photography than I was at writing fiction. Smart phones made professional photojournalists obsolete anyway. When George W. Bush was President, I threw myself into the anti-war movement and the pro-impeachment movements. But the Democrats took back control of Congress. Nancy Pelosi declared impeachment to be “off the table,” and when Barack Obama was elected President, the anti-war movement exited the political scene, stage right.

By the time I hit 45, I realized I would never quit writing, since to quit writing meant that I would have to succeed at something other than writing, and that would never happen. For 20 years, the more I had tried to quit writing, the more I had kept coming back to it. It was the only thing in my life that I ever stuck with, impossible to fail at, since it was identical with failure. When failure is writing and writing failure, how can you fail at writing? What’s more, while I didn’t actually like to write, I needed it, needed to write the way a heroin addict needs his fix. The reasons are the same. The heroin addict and the failed writer both want one thing, to be alone, to forget reality, and live inside his imagination. I would give up literature for heroin, if I could, but heroin is too expensive.

In 2011, my father died and I lost my last full-time job, both within a few weeks of each other. I also lost the writer’s block I had for most of my life. Suddenly, I could speak. I wrote a full length novel. I wrote over 500,000 words of film reviews, autobiographical essays, and opinion pieces about politics and history. At the age of 25, I could barely write my own name. At the age of 50, I can write just about anything I want. If there’s a thought somewhere in my head, I will eventually find a way to put it into words. If there’s a film or a book I want to review, a political event I want to analyze, childhood demons I want to banish from my memory by speaking their names, or a story I want to tell, nothing will stop me from doing it. The only problem is that good, steady low-paying jobs, with predictable schedules, and paychecks that show up on time every two weeks are a thing of the past. I always laugh at Charles Bukowski whenever I read Post Office. These days, working at the post office is the kind of “good job” left-wing Democrats like Bernie Sanders are always promising to bring back. The post office? Henry Chinaski, check your privilege.

In 2015, you can no longer become a failed writer because you’ve failed at everything else. Writing takes time. It takes leisure. It takes the ability to hack together a life where you’ve got a few hours every day to sit down at your desk, or at some table at some coffee shop somewhere, and not be disturbed. My employment options at age 50 are far more limited than they were at age 23, not only because the job market is so much worse now, but because I’ve already demonstrated to the world that I’m not a good employee. My credit is bad. My resume is spotty. The Internet is full of my self-published rantings. They will never go away. My next job, if I’m even lucky enough to get one, will have to be one of those “we’ll hire anybody who can pass the drug test” kind of jobs. I’ll be a temp worker at an Amazon warehouse, or a low-level retail worker “on call” who works for 15 hours a week, and worries his head off waiting to work for another 50. Maybe I’ll go back up to Alaska and gut fish. I’ll be that strange dude in his 50s with no hair and a grizzled beard, the guy all the college kids laugh at one moment, then speculate how many years he did before his parole the next. I don’t know what my next job will be, but I’m fairly sure it will leave me little time to read, and to write. In my 20s, I became a failed writer because I couldn’t do anything else. In my 50s, if I want to stay a failed writer, I’ll have to fight for it.

But it really doesn’t matter because I finally understand. I’m not a writer at all. I’ve never been. I never will be. I am exactly what I wrote my first real short story about, a small-time embezzler and a petty thief, only this time I don’t want to steal a few hundred dollars from a cash-register at Starbucks. I want to steal something far more valuable, time, the time to write, the time to read, the time to watch interesting art house movies with subtitles, and ride my bike through the mountains of Northwest New Jersey, to debate politics on the Internet. I am small time embezzler and a petty thief, stealing ticks of the clock back from capitalism. I will lie, freeload, cheat, steal, mooch off the government. I will do anything to fight back against being pressed into a routine that snuffs out my voice for good. I will continue to speak, even if I’m the only one listening. Henry David Thoreau once said that you cannot kill time without injuring eternity. I will do my best to spend the next 25 years of my life without injuring eternity.

But I will probably fail.

471 thoughts on “On Being a Failed Writer

  1. izza ifzaal

    I am never contended with what I write. .but somehow your words had a connection with me..I fail at everything and writing isn’t something I can ever let go still knowing it is so shite

  2. Sabah Dickerson

    Wow, I just want to say thank you for this post. I am 26 and I feel like this is sort of looking into my future, but with collegiate coaching instead. I haven’t found a job yet, although I worked with a college program for four years and completed two degrees. I haven’t stopped applying for coaching positions, because I am afraid that I may not be good at anything else. I can understand why you persisted with writing, but I also see why you have to be truthful with what you’re not.

  3. Sam Hindu's Blog.

    Hello Mr. Writer. You do write good and you pore your heart out to paint a picture with Words.

    I am re loving your article on my blog

    The day you stop writing you become a dead one at least for you.

    So keep breathing words And share those mental picture.

    Who cares weather you made money or not.

    You are leaving your legacy behind and once in cyber space You shall live for centuries to come.

    Sam Hindu.

  4. Grand Coesre Brecht Romanow

    So good to read your essay to explain what we are. Lonely, lonely, lonely. Beggars, beggars, beggars. A cultural scandal? Maybe. But – we all will SURVIVE. Thats the difference between us and other peoples. There was a quite unknown German philospher – I think Kaiser was his name. He said; The one and only which makes out a human being is WHAT IS DOCUMENTED BY HIM. So – according to Kaiser – we all are immortal. What more can be achieved by us? (By the way: Sorry for my bad ideomatic writing, my original native language is German)

    My writers name: Nicolai F. Brecht-Romanow. What I am writing? Watergate stoprys

  5. Pingback: On Being a Failed Writer | Santosh Bhatt's Blog

  6. ari423

    I’m a 25 year old newly failed author lol this touched me. I think your a much better writer than u credit yourself and I hope to be as skilled of a failure myself.

  7. The Activist

    Maybe the fact that you still write is a sign that you haven’t failed. What is failure anyway ? Failure to most is not having money,give people that money and many are not at all progressive they stagnate. Just look at some of the “Music Legends” lost in their own celebritism. Failure for others is a lack of creatively,obviously not a problem. Failure is when people don’t look…seeing how I’m commenting that’s not a problem either. Seeing how not everyone finds fame in their own lifetime there’s always hope !

  8. potatopen

    My mind has been completely blown away and so must be my hands, for they were furiously waiting for me to start commenting on this incredible piece of your life! I loved, I repeat.. I simply loved these lines “So I concluded that if I was going to write about failure, I had to fail a lot more.” I understand how that feels, to fail over and over but wake up stronger the next time and say, “What next?”. I am in awe of your journey and your spirit that accompanied it! I’m so glad that I got to know a part of your immensely deep history! Please keep writing 🙂

  9. Unstoppabl3you

    Lol… I don’t know if humour was intended in this piece of writing or not , but I certainly got in a few laughs! Thank you . Although I wonder if I can relate to this at 21. What will become of me at 50??

  10. leanlobo

    Enjoyed your post. I am also in the fifth decade of life and identify with your struggles. We now write with experience and imagination- and that creates magic!

  11. carthorse73

    I’ve always wanted to write but never found the courage to try, suspecting the inevitable failure would crush me I’ve remained silent apart from a nascent blog which nobody reads.
    At least you have tried and even if success continues to elude you that must be satisfying. As some successful writer once said ” better to have tried and failed then not to have tried at all”
    I hope success finds you and you enjoy it when it comes my friend.

  12. jochallacombe

    Having just finished a blog post about finding your voice, and then realising no one likes it, an insightful and interesting read. Keep failing, you’re doing brilliantly at it. Jo.

  13. hearingjubilee

    I don’t know if you will see this, but like other posts I am afraid this will be my life, working tirelessly to do what I must: Write. While I work endless, painful jobs only to end up penniless, afraid, alone, and a failure.

  14. lyeasley

    Hope matters. I hope I live a long, healthy life and can look back knowing I really honestly did write all that was in me to put out there. Worth much more than a steady paycheck–but know I am pretty hooked on those too.

  15. mariekitten

    I am going to follow your blog for no other reason than at 58, I am also a failed writer, however I have better success at quitting than you did/do. Particularly since there is solitaire, but I’m working on it.

  16. nicolemazavello

    You should never give up on something that you are passionate about. Reading your words are truly heart felt. You have to believe in yourself. You can do anything that you put your mind to. Failure is not an option.

  17. jenjen

    Hmm. I’m not sure if that’s left me feeling inspired or disheartened. Both, perhaps? Scared that I can relate so much, yet it’s comforting to know I’m not the only one. But I’m pretty sure that at the age of 30, I haven’t failed…yet.

  18. Matt On Accident


    I pressed with my pen a bit harder,

    My ink-well’s run out, can’t get farther.

    Writing’s gotten stronger

    A little bit longer,

    I just wish my technique was smarter!

  19. scarlettewolfgang

    “You never fail until you quit trying.” – So says my fortune cookie from this morning! …And I dunno, maybe Albert Einstein. And Grant M. Bright. And since we’re going a little quote happy here, also John Keats’s “Failure is, in a sense, the highway to success” is always a good pick-me-up.
    Thanks for the post. Hitting my mid-twenties and quickly realizing that hindsight is a huge jerk. This really resonated with me, as an aspiring writer who’s had a few hard knocks in life.

    Thanks again for posting.

  20. casuallywriting

    Its awsm… to hv written what u feel. Writing is not about money…it bout your passion… m touched. CA by profession i too have quit the job for its not my cup of tea. Recently started writing…mayb not as good as a pro…just what i feel..
    You article is really inspiring..

  21. cazdawnie

    My god this is amazing… I’m a bit young to empathise with your mid-life crisis but I must say – to love writing and to make a living out of writing are two completely different things and I’m scared, your post scared me but woke me up at the same time. Awe-inspiring this is, I love this. A great tonne of insight with just the right dose of melancholy. Thank you 🙂

  22. meowmimi066

    The void within failed writers plung them into despondency but the unquenchable thirst of writing keeps them going too. Afterall we can not quit life even if we know that only the fittest shall survive.
    Great work sir. With a lot of respect. 🙂

  23. Pingback: On Being a Failed Writer | Just any random thought

  24. Rahul Singh (Good Little Indian)

    Hi, I am new into blogging. This was the 1st time I read you. After reading this all I know is that I would never try to quit writing, and I think I would be better of being a failed writer. But, then I know I might go through the period too.. Great share.. Thanks!

  25. crownless26

    I don’t know you. But I felt my heart warm reading this. No one who loves writing honestly it is a failure. No one. I do too struggle with it. I’m 24. You might think, you got all your life. But I write poetry. And poetry doesn’t sell. I’ve been published at 16, and I did everything alone. Then in 2011 and the publisher failed few weeks later my second book was in my hands. So I do understand, it’s difficult. But I’m glad it didn’t stop you – nor will stop me. I will surely follow you. If my English is bad, sorry, I’m Italian and sometimes I struggle with it :p xx

  26. chezlerevefrancais

    I love your piece. As a fellow 44 year old failure I know I can’t give up either so I’m doing the blogging thing. My problem is that I can’t forget about it. My mind is constantly writing scenes for novels in progress and recipes. I fret over it when it shouldn’t matter. Perhaps it’s an addiction! Good luck.

  27. Mary Kendall

    The gods at Word Press have “freshly pressed” your essay–you have been blessed and will now have thousands of followers. It’s as simple as that. Clever man…you chose the right topic, wrote the perfect headline and captured their attention…and mine…and those of most other writers who understand both the impulse to write and the often difficult and lonely world of a person who writes. As for making a living on it? Think about it. Most people in the arts struggle, but they continue because what they express is an important part of them. I hit my poet side for years and it wasn’t until I was 58 that I published a poem I liked (published some in my 20’s but then stopped writing for years). The fun for you now begins–you’ve ‘done’ failure and succeeded with this posting. What will you write about next? I, for one, plan on following you so please make it something good. [P.S., Congratulations]

  28. Suburban Leaves

    I’m 50 too and have heaped failure, at our age it’s a relief to be honest and as Fitzgerald said, we’re like “boats borne ceaselessly back into the past. ” and it doesn’t matter. Great piece mate.

  29. algienquirido

    im 31 and I’m starting to see the foresight of my 50’s if i will not start thinking right and gather myself together from now on moving forward. I can not even remember being 25 at the age of 31, time just flies so fast. this article just makes me realize a lot of things, but also brings me back to “sqaure one” as i always term it. the situation of starting all over again!


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