the every day

I'm supposed to blog here to increase my chances of being a successful writer. I'm supposed to write about writing. I'm supposed to read other blogs. Get involved. Be a contributor. Provide feedback. Share tips. A writer these days needs to network. Employ social media. Write about politics, religion, current events. But I’m raising kids. Trying to make my wife’s life the best it can be. And all I ever want to write about is THE EVERY DAY. But this—it appears—is not enough. You must want more. And you must be able to do more. The requirements of success are only met by having a broad skill set. But mine has been narrowed—over the years—to one. And that, my friend, is like being bitched from the start when all you’ve ever known is that you want to be the best fucking writer since Carver, Davis, Shaw, and Hemingway. But you aren't supposed to want to be the best. You're supposed to build a portfolio. Provide constructive criticism. Run workshops. Teach English Comp. And—most importantly—you should embrace the flavor of the season. Vampires, erotica, the election. Because if Stephanie Meyer, E. L. James, and Mark Owen can do it, you can do it too. Just read them. Imitate. Emulate. And before you know it, you’re selling books. Doing readings. The next best thing. But I don’t want fifteen minutes or a series of like-minded books. I want a lifetime. And if that means I’ll never cash the checks, pay the tab, make the house payment, and I’ll always be that guy from Michigan that drinks too much, writes too plainly, and never hits it big, then I suppose I’ll have really accomplished something. ~ K.J.