The Fringe Detriments of Writing Fiction

In response to Mr. Highland’s challenge to come up with a counter point to my list of the fringe benefits of writing, I offer to you, the fringe detriments of writing:

• Not enough people worship me. Jesus had a whole pool of suckers to write for him. Am I comparing myself to Jesus? Yes. Which brings me to…
• An inflated ego brings nothing but misery. But on someone as awesome as me, misery looks damn good.
• Something can easily take years to write, but can be read and forgotten in hours (wow, that was a bit of an honest one. I wasn’t expecting that)
• If you are so brash as to call your writing an art-form, very few people will be interested. People who don’t care for art will change the subject. People who don’t write but enjoy art will simply not believe you. And people who do write and do enjoy art will immediately resent you for stealing their form. Those few that do take interest will likely wane once you start describing character motivations and narrative arc. The trick, I think, is to write about boobs.
• If the page is a reflection of your soul, as hippy writers like to say, then a writer must be fully aware and be willing to accept that your life and soul both suck. Get a job, hippy!
• Paper cuts are a job hazard. Pen stabbings are too. Computer maulings happen. I once choked on the “T” key.  These are all self-inflicted. For fuck’s sake, I sit in front of a computer for hours each day; I go mad!
• One man’s masterpiece is another man’s throw-in to offload a used lawn mower at his yard sale.
• When caught burrowing in a dumpster, the excuse “it’s research for a project” only works once. Subsequent times require the truth: “I’m a writer, so I am homeless.”