Adventures in fund raising

So at one time today I thought that I had a whole post on Chassidus vs. Mussar worked out, and life would be all hunky-dory. I'd type it up, post it, and go to bed. Then I discovered that in fact my post would not answer, and that's why I'm writing now. If you're lucky, you'll get a well-thought out post; if you're not lucky, it'll look like Thursday night. So here we go!

There was an article in New York Magazine which explained why I'll never be the next great American Jewish writer. See, I'm an American, and I'm Jewish, and that disqualifies me. All the really great writers are immigrants, and they wrestle with their religious fates as if they were characters in an arena somewhere in Ohio. Me? I'm as American as Apple Pie, and I'd as soon wrestle with my religious fate as attend a wrestling event somewhere in an arena in Ohio.

So what's an aspiring writer to do? Faced with this utter lack of external resources and an equally disastrous lack of internal fortitude-but wait, is that so true? Have I no experience, no mind-bogglingly dull toasteds that I can trot out at a moments notice, writing with all the flare of a man who has the past behind him and the future rosy with a nice little tint of jello.

Sorry, it appears that Thursday is upon us once again. But seriously, it does appear that the age of the great Jewish writer has left us. Having existential angst caused by a lack of existential angst is all fine and dandy, but it's pretty hard to make a living writing about it, unless of course you have the knowingly ironic touch. No, something more is required. Greatness comes not from a comfortable middle-class existence, but rather from hardship and privation. You have to suffer for art. Of course, I have no great aspirations to art, but would instead be perfectly satisfied with a comfortable living. The government bailout, for example, would be much better used by me than any Wall St. fat cat. Just think how much our glorious union would benefit if I had seven hundred billion tax-free dollars at my disposal. Our economy would positively shriek for joy as I lay down the cash for a few minor purchases, i.e. a BBJ, a house, and perhaps a couple of helpers around the house.

Writing is no easy trade. Not for us is the security of the office nor the excitement of the racetrack. And some people envy us our seeming indolence. The truth is far different of course. When we're not busy peppering our blogs with helpful/humorous links we're busy saving the world one pen at a time. I understand that these great humanitarians (that we are) are often unappreciated, and their (our?) work is maligned under the most false of pretenses. This is not a cry for recognition-"I don't need your eighteen dollars!", but rather a desire to truly understand the process behind making a quick buck off an unsuspecting public yearning to be cut free of the bonds which tie it irrevocably to those barbarians up north. So yes, give me your tired, your poor, your hungry huddled masses yearning for semi-decent literature at an exorbitant price. Open for me the eye of a needle, and I shall open for you my wallets (you can drop the cash there, or deposit the checks directly to my account. Please see my secretary for credit card payments).