by Manuel Gonzales

Today I woke up to an epiphany.

I've been going about this whole writing/publishing thing all wrong. I shouldn't be writing clean and clear prose and stories about people I've known, places I've seen, music I've heard. I shouldn't use authors like Morrison and Faulkner and Erdrich and Hemingway and Garcia Marquez as my influences, their work as my guiding light. Forget novels and short stories and poetic prose. I should write a book on how to write.

Not only that. I should write a book that will convince everyone that writing is terrible, horrible, depraved and incorrigible work. I should make up real and pertinent and absolutely true quotes like:

A wise man once said, "The only thing worse than passing a kidney stone is being a writer of fiction. The only thing worse than being a writer of fiction is becoming a writer of poetry."

I should tell everyone that only one out every five - hundred - billion - trillion - thousand writers leads a content and happy and fulfilled life. And also that the rest are drunks, are self-abusive, have bad skin, and are losing their hair at a phenomenal rate. They're probably dead, too, and that they died lonely, friendless people. Oh, and don't forget, they shamed their families.

I should also include statistics like: you have a better chance of becoming the next Pope than getting published; 95% of all alcoholics are writers; one out of every five men lactate; and odds are that I'll make more money in selling you this advice than you will in taking it.

I should tell them the truth about writing (I mean, this is the "Verities" column, isn't it?): how it makes you hate your mother and small furry animals; how, once people find out you're a writer, you will become ostracized and will be subject to routine Sunday stonings; how you will mutter to yourself and your pet and walk around all day wearing your underwear on the outside of your Rough Riders; and the rumors are true: you will become tone deaf and most possibly develop rectal cancer.

Someone once said, "Before trying alcoholism, burn your house down and everything in it. It's quicker and probably cheaper, too." Same goes for writing. Trust me. I'm writing a book about it. And since it's going to be published, you might as well give up, 'cause that fills the book quota for the next ten years. Don't pity yourself, however. Oh no. I am to be pitied. Getting published is by far the worst thing that can happen in your life, next to maybe writing another book or dying a virgin.

As a published writer (good luck, buddy), everyone around you will be writing best-sellers left and right, will be making money hand over fist and will spend the better part of their day laughing at you behind your back and throwing all their success in your face. You won't have any friends because you will hate all those people you once knew and believed to be your friends, and in the end, you'll kill yourself -- or maybe just them -- but either way, you won't get published. Remember that above everything else: the odds are against you that you will get published. The odds just aren't in your favor. Sorry, Charlie.

The odds aren't in my favor. Huh. There was once a time when I knew little about odds or statistics or my chances. There was once a time when, if I wanted to do something, I did it. And unless I wanted to set my sister on fire or ride my bike through the house or break David Ernst's leg, no one told me I couldn't. In fact, the more important people in my life told me I could. For the most part, they still tell me I can. I just stopped listening.

When I applied for college, I applied to only two schools, and wanted to go to really only one of them. I didn't know, and at the time wouldn't have cared, that the one school I really wanted to go to only accepted around 5% of all applicants. I didn't read about the statistics until I received my acceptance letter. Back then I wouldn't have given a second thought to the statistical "truth" that only 1% of writers can make a living writing, or that the Texas Center for Writers only accepts maybe three new students each year. Even a year ago, I wouldn't have cared about any of these numbers or the facts of life. Used to be, I was never a strong believer in the facts of life. Lately, however, it's been all I can think about. More than sex, more than alcohol (although thoughts like these usually lead me to one or the other or both). I'd been thinking about my chances as a writer so much, I'd almost forgotten why I write. Instead I would concentrate on how poor I am (about as poor as dirt) and how smart I am ('bout as smart as a brick). Life was looking grim.

Then I went back to my childhood.

I took a day to myself and went and saw the new, revised, SPECIAL EDITION version of The Empire Strikes Back. My father owns a copy of the old, not so special edition, and the last time I was home, I watched it again so I could remember it the way it was before I saw it the way it is now (if that made any sense whatsoever). For the most part, I enjoyed the original tenfold more than the revised edition. Call me what you will. But, there's something about the new version. Perhaps because it was bigger and brighter, or because I paid five dollars to see it, or maybe the new digital - dolby - make - your - ears - bleed sound made the difference, but until I saw the new version I'd forgotten about the most important lesson that movie has to offer. In all honesty, for a Star Wars movie, Empire's bleak, especially compared to the first and the last. Evil triumphs over good with a hearty laugh. Han Solo is gone, sold to a giant slug; Luke's hand is chopped off and he finds out his dad's the baddest bad guy around. No furry ewoks to save the day this time. But amidst all that, Harrison Ford speaks words of wisdom greater than the Dali Lahma could utter even on his best day.

Han's got the Empire hot on his tail, the damn warp drive doesn't work, and he's headed straight through an asteroid field. Not only that, a prissy, anal-retentive, bright gold, annoying "protocol-droid" is over his shoulder rattling off statistics like my old Trig teacher. "The chances of blah blah blah blah are infinity to blah blah blah blah. We're gonna die."

Jesus Christ.

You know what? This goes out to all you C3POs of the world: shut the hell up. And another thing: never, never, never tell me the odds. I have no use for odds.