I am writing this with the wounds on my fingers steadily closing up. My paper-cuts are tightening, the missing chunks of my knuckles are being readily replaced, and the scrapes on my palms are clotting. I am writing this with scabs all over my hands.
But I have no choice other than to work through the cuts and bruises to compose this. I can’t simply stop writing. It is my life-blood. It is my will and my passion. It is what does not pay my bills. How can I just give up writing because of a couple of scars?
It would be nice to be able to take a couple of weeks off. To not have to update this damn blog. To not have to think of any new ideas. To not have to turn any clever phrases. To just go around in circles. Unfortunately, I cannot afford that liberty.
While the Writer’s Guild of America wants to go on strike, it is us, The Unemployed Writers of America who must pick up the slack. Those of us who make nothing off our words. Those whose jokes go for naught. Those who never get read. It is us who must feebly fill the creative void that is left while the real writers take their little break.
Of course I would love to take some time off from not making money for my writing. But I’ve got to continue writing and not making money for it. Or else, in a few minutes, I’ll be right back where I started not making any money for my writing.
No, Unemployed Writers of America, let them, the paid writers strike. We will not. We will continue writing for nothing. For no one. We will continue publishing on our pathetic web-pages, continue spreading our good words to our three family members and four friends, continue growing more frustrated by the post. Because it is our duty. Our write.
For what better time is there to write than when there is absolutely nothing to strive for? When there is absolutely no chance of being hired. No way to be discovered. No money possibly coming your way. What purer and greater time is there to create than when there is no market for your work at all? This is the time to just continue what we do best, write for ourselves and only ourselves.
There is a spectre haunting America. Now is our time! Unemployed Writers of America! Now is our time to be read. Now is our time to sit down at our computers, type, and let our words appear across this land. Now is our time to sort of matter.
For too long we have lived in the shadows of the capitalist Writers Guild of America. With their contractual chains weighing us down and preventing us from ever getting paid to write. That Noble Guild of Writers that nobly forces non-guilded writers to write for nothing.
Where were they when we were slaving away on our blogs, when we were sending out our manuscripts, when we were freelancing for free? Where were they when we were struggling, eating our ramen noodles, hoping for our one date with Lady Luck?
Oh yes, the Writer’s Guild is there for its members. Those who are successful. Those who got their big break. Those with an in. But where were they ever for us, The Unemployed Writers of America?
Hiding behind their big tables and white marker boards. That’s where. Throwing out hilarious ideas behind closed doors. Brain-storming and re-writing. Laughing all the way to the bank.
Deleting our online applications and never even reading our samples. Tossing our resumes and portfolios in the trash. That’s where they were. Snorting on the inside at those unfortunate enough to have to write on the outside.
But now is our time Unemployed Writers of America. While they strike, we will strike back. We will now be the bearers of the written word. We will be the creators of the content. We will be the authors of the agenda. The public has no choice but to read us. Or not read at all.
Let them picket in their little lines. While they are walking, we will be writing. And soon, Unemployed Writers of America, soon a new day will dawn. When we will no longer be the abused, misused, ridiculed and ignored scribblers of days gone by.
No, a new day will dawn when we are somewhat relevant. When we are the only option to kill a few minutes on the Internet while at work. When we are the last ones left to possibly entertain. When, by default, we are the best there is.
O Unemployed Writers of America. Now is our time. Our calling. To do what we were put here on God’s green earth to do. To write. For free.
