Someone asked me today why I have stopped writing fiction. I told them that my motivation for writing fiction had been bound up with using the fiction to escape poverty. Although I had enjoyed writing fiction for its own sake, that enjoyment had been infilitrated by the hope of living on a normal income from writing fiction instead of being trapped on a government handout that is less than half of a poverty line income, and the enjoyment had become inseparable from the hope. Then I read about the late Philip K. Dick, who had been one of the best writers of his generation, and certainly the best such writer of science fiction and fantasy, but, despite having had several novels published, had spent his whole life on welfare anyway. That made me lose hope of sufficient income from writing fiction, and, when the hope died, it dragged my enjoyment of writing fiction into its grave with it. So you could actually say that my enjoyment of writing fiction is currently buried alive in the same coffin as a corpse, so that it will eventually suffocate to death under unpleasant circumstances. There’s nothing I can do about it, so I’ve accepted that I’ll probably never feel motivated to write fiction again.
But why is it that I never did get published? Same reasons as about 10 million other English-language writers have never been published, many of them better writers than me and more deserving publication. The lesser reason is that the publishing and magazine industries are fall too small to have room to publish all deserving work. The bigger reason is that publishers and magazines are businesspeople, and businesspeople are sterile, which makes them spiteful toward those who are fertile, purely out of unconscious resentment. No successful businessperson ever created anything. What they do is exploit enterpreneurs, inventors, technically creative people and artistically creative people in order to make a million times more money off those things than their creators do. But despite the great wealth and fame and opulent lives of businesspeople, at their core is a bitterness they are not aware of, the bitterness of being barren and obliged to be parasites. This bitterness is probably exacerbated by the fact that they do ruthlessly exploit creative people, which they do in order to retaliate against our fertility, and which in turn makes them retaliate even more spitefully.
I’ve come to the decision that I am going to reject all commercial opportunities I might get for my writing in the future. It’s highly unlikely that I’ll ever get any, so this isn’t something I spend all my time fantasizing about; mostly, I don’t even think about it at all. But I am prepared for all the weaselly, dishonest arguments that business parasites will throw at me–that I can make money if I let them exploit me to make a million times more money for not doing anything of true value, that they can deviously arrange to have my disability checks cut off in order to put pressure on me to play along, that they can frighten my unsophisticated father to tears and use him to put pressure on me to knuckle under, that they can even steal my work and lie about it and get away with it because I can’t afford a lawyer. I’m not going to disclose my strategies in event of such conduct just in case there are businesspeople reading this post, but I’m completely ready for them in peaceful and lawful ways. I’m always peaceful and lawful, and also have a peaceful and lawful plan in place in case anyone makes up stories to the authorities, counting on the authorities being bigoted enough against someone with the label of schizophrenia automatically to believe any lie they’re told about me by a scumbag fatcat who has a privileged position in society. It really is great to have all the bases covered so I can don’t worry, be happy. And it’s even better to have conquered despair about my writing and be in a position to accept it just as what it is.