And The Award For Greatest Writer Of All Time Goes To...

I'm starting to wonder how realistic it is to consider writing as a career.

I realize this is a bit of a defeatist attitude, especially when it's all I've ever wanted and I busted my ass in college to get a writing degree.  I also know that there is a plethora of options out there for me; copywriter, editor, proofreader, transcriber, grant writer...but what I'm interested in - where my passion truly lies - is creative writing.

In my fantasy world, a newspaper would call me and be all, "Hey!  It's me!  The newspaper!"  And then I'd be all, "Oh hey the newspaper!  I was wondering when you'd call.  How's it hanging?"

"Oh, you know," the newspaper would respond, "Black, white, and read all over."

"Ha ha ha," I would laugh.  "I feel you newspaper, I feel you."

Then the newspaper and I would shoot the shit for awhile.  I'd ask it how its family was, and the newspaper would tell me that the kids were great, but he thought that his wife was cheating on him with some freelance online magazine.

"Bummer!" I'd say.

"Yeah, it really rips my pages." the newspaper would say.

Then we would have a moment of silence as we both reflected on the injustice of lovers scorned.

"Anyway," the newspaper would sigh as I imagined it shaking its head and wiping away a single, silent tear that had rolled down its sports section and smudged the final score of last night's game, "the reason I was calling was to offer you a job."

"A job you say..." I would respond, as I held the phone between my chin and shoulder and gave myself a high-five.

"Yes, I stumbled upon the online archives of your column from your college paper and-"

"Newspaper, wait." I would cut him off. "What were you doing on the Internet?  Doesn't that go against everything you stand for?"

"I was trying to find that electronic rat bastard that's been flipping through my wife's classified section." the newspaper would mumble, anger seeping out of his every page.

"Oh...",  'Well this is awkward...' I would think to myself.  "So!  Uh - a job!  Jeepers, that's great!"

"Yes yes, a job!" the newspaper would exclaim, thankful to be back on topic. "As I was saying, I found your articles and I would like to offer you your own weekly column, writing about anything you want!"

"Really?!" I would exclaim. "Anything I want?  Relationships, heartbreak, sex?"

"Yes, yes, and yes.  Especially that last one."

"Oh newspaper," I'd chortle, "you sly dog, you."

"What do you say?" the newspaper would ask. "You'll get paid a buttload of money, get full benefits, and I'll never fire you!"

"Newspaper, you've got yourself a deal!"

"Jenga!" The newspaper would shout with excitement. "I look forward to working with you, you young yet brilliant writing prodigy that is bound to revolutionize the literary world as we know it!"

"I look forward to working with you as well!  I'll get to work immediately!"

"Fantastic." the newspaper would say. "Toodles!"

I would then hang up with the newspaper only to have my phone immediately ring again.

"Hello?"

"Good afternoon, this is the Nobel Prize of Literature," they would say, "and after reading your blog, I'd like to offer you-"

Just kidding about that last part.  That wouldn't be believable at all.