Being a writer is a lonely and brutal vocation. You spend most of your time in a room (or, in my case, a basement) writing stories into the wee hours of the morning that you hope will see the light of day in a magazine or between two hard, glossy covers that you did not publish yourself on CreateSpace. Your life is pretty much a joke to those who work a normal job that pays a living wage and, in tougher times, you are forced to take on work at places like gas stations or diners just to get some cash flowing so that you can eat stuff like turkey jerky and canned peaches to stay alive.
And some days you wonder, "Is it worth it?"
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