So you want to be a writer.

Isn't that a quaint notion.

Now, I know what you're thinking: I've got some really great, original ideas poking around this big cranium of mine, so why the hell don't I let someone read them? And it's good that you've got confidence in your creativity. The problem is that that's the easy part. It's the actual work that's involved that's a pain in the ass.

First you've got to plan. And plan some more. And some more. And some more, until you have something that can pass as a decent length overview. That's all find and good, until you show it to someone for an opinion, who promptly zeroes in on the few aspects of the story that you didn't fully research, because it was just taking too damn long and you wanted to get it done. So now, more out of the embarrassment of getting caught then actually taking the person's advice, you go back and pore over twice as much research material on those few things than you did for the entirety of the overview, just to wave it in their face and say "There! Are you happy now?" And of course they will be, because you actually took their advice, even if it was only to smother the annoyance of having the inconsistencies pointed out to you again and again.

Then comes the part that most English teachers and authors will probably tell you is the easiest part of the entire process: the first draft. You can just write whatever the he3ll you want, be as long-winded as you like, use gibberish language that makes no sense to anybody but you, safe in the knowledge that all the mistakes will be corrected in that magical process known as editing. Ah, but alas that isn't exactly the case. In theory, the first draft is an inconsequential step, more of a given than anything else. And yet, it's here where you make contact with that demonic hell-spawn known as writer's block, sent out from the literary aether to amuse those from whence it came. The words sputter and die, and you sit there, pen poised just above the page, with a look on your face that could only be described as 'blissfully clueless'.

And of course, who could forget the all-encompassing minefield known as the editing process? A process that is easily recognizable as torture, yet one that all writers subject themselves to. And why is that? Perhaps they have a pension for self-mutilation, and want their work to be torn apart at the seams, their manuscript pages marked red as if it were blood coming from the tip of their editor's pen rather than the crimson-coloured ink they've come to know, expect and downright loathe. That's certainly a possibility, and yet somehow it's rather doubtful. Could it be that they're going under the honourable-sounding pretense that they want to "grow in their craft"? Hardly. I mean sure, there are a rare few to whom that may apply, but on the whole, most professional writers can only come up with one reason to put themselves through it: they need the money. If you really want to be a writer, you have to resign yourself to the fact that, for most of your life, you will be broke. This isn't a possibility. It's an inevitability. Because, let's face it, the chances of you reaching the Stephen King/Tom Clancy-echelon of writers is slim to none. You're going to get your work edited because you want to get it sold. Don't go shooting off any dirt looks, because you know it's the truth.

Now, just think, your manuscript has been sufficiently devoured, you've made all of the changes your editor suggested (and quite possibly some he didn't if you were feeling especially daring), so what's the next step? Congratulations. You get to have it edited all over again. Your prize? More work at this point than you thought the entire process would take at the outset; and do you want to know why? Because it takes a hell of a lot more effort to trim stuff out of your text than it does to write it down in the first place. Most of the things you'll need to trim will be things that you absolutely love; things that were the reason you started writing this in the first place. If you have to get rid of those, what's the point in continuing? You'd probably know better than anyone else. It's your story, after all. Best case scenario, you've come to really like a part of the story that will actually manage to survive the editing process. Worst case scenario, you're pretty much finishing it because you spent too damn much time on it to abandon it at the eleventh hour, which, let's face it, happens more often than you would think.

The final problem you're going to have is getting honest opinions. In all likelihood, most people who read what you've written will give you polite answers like "It's alright" or "It wasn't bad". There aren't many people who actually want to take the time to give a decent literary critique. This is primarily due to laziness. Few people have either the attention span or the inclination to take the time to go into a detailed literary analysis. Not that they're entirely to blame, of course. In a culture raised on distractions like television and the Internet, who would? There are so many more interesting things to do. Hell, think of some of the things you could be doing right now rather than reading this.

So now it's however long later. You've gone through this whole arduous process, gotten your work polished (or so these publishers would claim), and in print. What not, you might be asking? It's funny you should ask that, because guess what? You get to do the whole damn thing over again! Aren't you glad you decided to be a writer?