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. The Serving Buddha

    Ahhh, like a sip of good coffee and a voice that this writer can only aspire to recreate. We are indebted to your failure – keep it coming.

  2. mhxiong

    THANK YOU!! Now I don’t feel so bad for calling myself a writer at 30 when I’ve never written anything. I feel so relieved.

  3. ansocoetzee

    How very profound and humbling. Your efforts will never be in vain. Example Van Gogh, they thought he would never amount to anything. How sad it is though that maybe, only maybe, when we die, our work will mean something. Do not fret you are an inspiration.

  4. katharineotto

    Two aphorisms I like to tell myself are “You don’t fail until you quit trying,” and “95% of success is failure,” a twist on Thomas Edison’s “Sure I get results. I know 10,000 things that don’t work.”

    Interesting that you mention Thoreau. This is the third time this week I have read things that refer to him. Yes! magazine, with this month’s issue devoted to debt, has a piece about a woman who used Thoreau as a model for simplifying her life. The Sun magazine has a charming article about an English professor’s fascination for Walden. I checked Walden out of the library yesterday, to re-read after first reading and admiring it 40 years ago. He only published two things before his death, but he died at 45. You still have time.

    1. srogouski Post author

      One of my favorite pieces by Thoreau is his defense of John Brown. I think it was published in his lifetime (but I’m not sure how widely distributed it was).

  5. skyewaters

    When you pour your heart and soul into writing something like this, your one hope is that others might learn from your mistakes. Reading this has got me wondering “what if this is me in a few years time?” thank you for sharing this…

  6. matthew laffrade

    Time. That was always the culprit I blamed for lack of output. You could have put me smack dab in the middle of Walden and I would have said that splitting wood was the culprit. Thank you for your honesty.

  7. AnotherMomBlog

    I enjoyed this very much! I have been writing online for years and have felt similarly that I was going to keep writing but continually fail. It’s ok because I just keep on writing. You can’t be a failure if you keep trying. It’s nice that WordPress noticed your hard work, and I hope you get many followers to share with from this piece. Best of luck!

  8. GetitTogetherHannah

    Hell YES I love this! I am inspired. I work at a restaurant in the Atlanta airport – where I make decent money with minimal time and effort involved. I have kept this job and actually put in a little effort so that I may continue to fight for my struggling artist status. Even though the man keeps swooping out of the fucking sky and stealing my paintbrushes right out of my hard. So thank you for this reassuring inspiration, sir.

  9. The Guat

    Great piece! I think many writers “trying to make it” can completely relate to what you’re saying. I know a lot of people who rarely talk about their failures, everything is always as awesome as their social media posts. I on the other hand just throw it out there and own it. Makes for some great writing material. I’m so glad that there are others out there as well, others that fail and might continue to face failure, but they still wake up in the morning and try. Good post dude.

  10. Pingback: Symphony No. 2: A Meditation on Charles Ives | Writers Without Money

  11. mcanela22

    It seems to me that you have written plenty in your lifetime and should be proud of that…most writers (at least I hope) don’t write for money or consider their success as writers based on making money off of it. Keep at it!

  12. wolskisuccesspartners

    Yes. I actually read it. Read the whole thing, word for word. It all depends on your definition of “fail” and “failure.” You say you failed at being a writer but then have written hundreds of thousands of words. That is a measure of success. Now if you say you have failed because you haven’t earned a living at writing, well that isn’t really a measurement of being a writer. That is a measurement of being an earner.

  13. Pingback: On Being a Failed Writer | wolskisuccesspartners

  14. Pingback: On Being a Failed Writer | A Vase of Wildflowers

  15. Rococopay

    First and foremost we write for ourselves, I would imagine there were a few famous writers whom were selfish and kept valuable writing to themselves. I would love to read the personal notes and journals of my favorite authors, those old dusty notebooks tucked in the dark reaches of the closet.

  16. Pingback: On Being a Failed Writer | JE tue IL

  17. eddiekeyton1

    I have been attempting to make it in the writers world for almost a year. Publishing two blogs (www.lifeisablog.com and http://www.iphoneblogging.com ) I only make 5 dollars a day from both blogs combined. I used to believe that j could make a living from blogging but that is starting to wither away into just a distant memory.

  18. walt walker

    Loved this, had me hooked from beginning to end, so success, I think. I would write more but you already have 296 comments to slog through, and I’ve never seen so many likes on a post. Thanks for sharing so simply and honestly.

  19. joangeraghty

    Feedback is so important for writers and it looks like you are getting lots of the positive kind with this blog posting, and deservedly so. You sound like a dedicated and in some ways tortured writer. Good for you! If it were easy what would be the point?
    Keep going as you are, you may now just be coming in to your flow.

  20. 106ferrets

    I love your perspective. However, you are by no means a failed as long as you do what you love 🙂 you’ve touched the hearts of many of your readers including me. Bravo

  21. christinadrh

    Well, sadly, there are the stats to think about. Only 10% of people read. More than 95% of all book advances paid out are never made back by the publisher and every author is 100% responsible for the sale of their book. Many writers are introverts and the thought of that is uncomfortable at best, terrifying is better. Always follow your passion and don’t let the ego get in your way. I love your post and you have not failed, you’re not finished yet, keep going.

  22. jacquelineobyikocha

    I love the humor in the face of such bleakness. My friend, you have a way with words and that is enough proof of your writing skills. Not making money is another kettle of fish entirely. I love this post. I made me sober, laugh out loud and sober up again. Thank you.

  23. BindedThoughts

    I loved this post because I just started blogging. I am 21 years old and my first writing experience was last year so I can relate in some way. To tell you the truth it was terrifying and still is at some point. But there’s always that “what if” that keeps me going! When I finished this, I began wondering if this is gonna be me in 30 years, a cool dude who made failure his bitch and now brags about it in some blog 🙂 I tip my hat to you sir!

    P.S If you do have some time, please check my new blog at http://www.bindedthoughts.com (however it’s still a work in progess)

  24. Evelyn Waters

    So, I think you should write a fiction novel on your life. People always think their life has to be something exciting or special for someone to want to read about it. But your style of writing is catching. Also, reading about someone so passionate is inspiring regardless if you make money off of it.

  25. gabriel4n44

    A prospective writer I am. I don’t wish to hold back any of my reactions towards this marvelous inspiration.
    Frankly, I just love this. It gives me the understanding not to be bordered failing or not getting the right ears to my voice… But to continue writing till I pass my message whether heard or not.
    Thank you very much.


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