The Sex Pistols
I thought I had died and gone to heaven when I found myself as a disc jockey at radio stations that played this defiant, D.I.Y. kind of music. I ‘fell’ into this career because I sold advertising at a small radio station (a great place to get a start) and they thought I had a good voice. Talk about going in through the ‘back door.’ Like writing, this is a field full of rejection and plenty of hungry kids willing to do the same job for free. My boss got hundreds of tapes and resumees a week from wannabees. So I established myself as a music critic and learned the computer programming to be a music director. I figured I’d ‘age out’ later. I ended up aged out at 40 and on a blacklist.
I’m listening to it, and The Pixies right now. Try doing that when you’re in a tentative mood state. I think it plays real well.
Right now I’m in author neurosis. Is my title too gross? Should I call the ‘such and such for dummies’ person? How humiliating!
Last night I perused the entire “Writer’s Market” for small, academic presses. Under the categories ‘Health and Medicine,’ nowhere did I see a real opening for “Tardive Dyskinesia.” But what if it becomes a ‘thang’ (our population rose by 600k in the last six months) and I didn’t bother to write my book? Bottom line? Do what you enjoy.
But what if you enjoy torturing yourself?