Talking with a friend who is a writer last night reminded me that both my dilletantish efforts at composing fiction, or my ill-formed dreams of putting together something useful to offer as a nonfiction text, are up against an astonishingly intimidating system. To become a professional writer appears to have as many barriers to entry as any other kind of profession — and like other professions, it would be difficult and expensive to switch. I suppose I can press on with my current (non-blogged) project or not, but the consolation I took from the conversation was that the reason to write is for love, not for money — if the money comes, that’s great, and you need a strong stomach to take all the bullshit that comes after or at least partway through the writing is done. My friend didn’t mean or intend or want to discourage me and I’m glad for the realistic insight into the business side of things. But the result was discouraging.