Can't Make a Living as a Writer - A Short Story

He never knew he could be a writer. It was an idea that had never occurred to him. He hated books growing up, he hated reading. He was 26 years old when he first came across a Bukowski poem that spoke to young writers. He laughed at those young writers, for he knew they were not going to make it. He laughed, for he knew he was going to make it; he had a full-time desk job back then. He sat in front of his computer screen remembering laying eyes on that poem for the first time, remembering his 26-year-old naive self.

“Babe, we need to talk.” his wife walked into the dining room, making him shuffle from drooping into his seat. “Are you looking for a job?” she asked.

He cleared his throat and looked at his email’s ‘sent’ list:30 emails to literary agents and an empty inbox. It had been a quarter of a year’s wait.

“I am not sure about my job.” the wife continued. “There’s a big layoff coming. I hear rumors about the company liquidating. Don’t know if I can keep my job. And besides. The little one is growing up fast. She needs new clothes. It's too cold for her to be wearing pants that hardly cover her legs.” and she walked back into the kitchen. Water gushed out of the tap, trickling into the sink stacked with dirty dishes.

“I’ll do the dishes,” he said getting up and walking towards the kitchen. The wife wrung her hands and went to check on the baby. The husband turned on the tap, filled the vessels with water, and scrubbed the burnt food off the steel bottom.

“don’t do it.” Bukowski’s poem said. “unless being still would drive you to madness or suicide or murder, don’t do it.” those words flashed in and out of sight. He was a 30-year-old father when the idea of becoming a writer made its way into his head. For the first time in his life, he understood what it meant to dream, for the first time in his life he believed he was not going to die at the desk of a soul-wrenching 9–5. It had been two years since that shimmer of hope enticed him away from his salary. It had made him burn more than a few bridges, and there was no going back.

He dried the vessels and wiped his hands on his jeans. His baby from the other room cooed and giggled playing with her mother. It was all okay, her daddy was going to take care of it all. The father dunked his head under the cold, running tap. His feet curled, his heel ripped out of his worn-out socks. The water flowed down the back of his head, ran its palms down his cheeks, covered his nostrils with its slender fingers, and dripped down the bridge of his nose, not allowing him to breathe. His mouth opened to gasp. His inbox pinged.

- Kahan J Sudev