What follows is a piece I wrote for Litquake, which is a fall festival of books and writers in San Francisco. Note, please, that I wrote said piece in a really bad mood.

I am not lost. I know this is Litquake. I know this is a celebration of books. I know this is our special time, set aside to pat ourselves on the back, to be patted, to acknowledge together the splendor and the thrill of writing. And then to get drunk.

And while I fully intend to get drunk, I stand before you tonight, my proverbial pants down around my proverbial ankles, and say this to you:

I fucking hate writing.

If someone could please call me and tell me how to stop writing, I would happily, gratefully cut them a check for twenty-five thousand dollars. I’m serious. If you or someone you know can tell me how to stop, I’ll pay.
Or if I can be of some other service, sexually, legally, whatever. I cook. I’ll come to your house and do your dishes after Thanksgiving. I’ll baby sit your child with the stomach flu.

I am not being ironic. I am not trying to be cute. I am not messing with your head. I don’t know whether it’s possible to be addicted to writing. But if it is, I am. And I sincerely want to quit. If you think it would work, I’ll go to meetings.
My name is Dylan Schaffer, and I’m a writer.

Here is my story.

In late 2001, possibly as a result of the shock of 9-11 and getting married, I gave up an opportunity to become a partner in successful law practice and became a writer. At that time I was a moderately well respected criminal defense lawyer. I didn’t work very hard. People called me on the phone in desperate situations and offered me ridiculous amounts of money to help them. They were extraordinarily grateful. And even if I lost the cases, I kept the money. I was pretty good at being a defense lawyer. Certainly not the best, but good. I believed I was doing righteous work, standing up for the Bill of Rights. I had a wonderful boss. I got to hang out with famous bad guys. I don’t mean to sound like an asshole, but seriously, I rarely went to a dinner party when my job was not a centerpiece of the conversation.

I once met Malcom Gladwell of the New Yorker at a birthday party in New York. This is a man I revere. The moment we were introduced my lips became numb. I feared I would have nothing witty or engaging to say. I feared Malcom Gladwell would discover that I am dullard. But all he wanted to talk about was a case I was handling which was all over the paper. Malcom Gladwell remembered seeing me on the cover of the New York Post.

Anyway, in late 2001 I quit all that and became a writer.

Since that time I have published four books. The first is a book in which dogs talk. The book also has cute pictures of dogs.

The next two were legal thrillers about a public defender obsessed with Barry Manilow.

The fourth was a memoir about my father with the word bialys in the title. I didn’t know, and I wish someone had told me, that 99 of 100 people in the United States do not know what a bialy is.

There are, of course, the horrors of releasing and promoting and selling books, which you’ve all heard before.

The first review I ever received, in a single paragraph, used the words disappointing, illogical, awkward, contrived and wearying.

My publisher hoped to sell my memoir to Jews, a few of whom know what a bialy is. So, on my own dime, I traveled to the Jewish Book Fair in San Diego. I imagined a large hall filled with intellectuals, hungry book buyers, opinion leaders. I’d be witty, win them over, and they’d go out and tell the world. Instead, I was sent to a pre-school classroom where, sitting in a very very small chair, I spoke to a group of youngsters and their parents about baking and death, neither of which, it turns out, is of much interest to five year olds.

But I’m not here to talk about all that. Writers have been griping about selling and promoting forever. And, honestly, while the review hurt, and the very, very small chair at the San Diego Book Fair was demeaning, I have no problem with the stuff after the book is done. I’m tough. I can take it.

But the writing. No, Sir. I’m sorry. It just sucks.

I understand the general rule that an addict won’t quit until she or he has hit bottom.

I want to know what that’s supposed to feel like, because I feel as if I’ve been on the bottom from the start. When isn’t it the bottom?

It’s preposterously, gut-wrenchingly hard. Especially novels. Especially crime books. We’re supposed to grab the reader from the first page. We can’t dally. We’re supposed to show and not tell. Adverbs are out. Stereotypes? Out. Not too many big words, not too many words in general. We’re supposed to convey place, voice, pacing, crescendo. The reader should feel confused, but not too confused. The reader should turn the last page and say, “Ah, cool.” Most importantly, the reader must be convinced to buy the next book in the series. Did I mention that we have to write books in a series?

The dates, the characters, who did what to whom? How are you supposed to keep it all straight?

Look, at the risk of sounding slightly smug, few middle-aged men have a better life than me. My wife has a great job and so long as I walk the dogs and keep her in hummus, she’s fine with my sitting around all day watching Americas Top Model on You Tube. I have an iPhone. I still like doing law and I can do enough to keep myself in decent bourbon. I travel, I cook, I watch movies.

Notwithstanding the financial crisis and vice presidential candidates shooting wolves from helicopters, I have a damn sweet existence.

So, please, why do I have trouble sleeping? Why does my back hurt? Why do I spend so many of my waking hours feeling as if someone punched me in the stomach five minutes earlier?

When I’m not writing. I ought to be writing, so I can’t really enjoy Americas Top Model or the bourbon. When I am writing it’s pure, unadulterated despair. Dull, unallayable pain. When it’s over for the day I feel an unwell combination of exhaustion, relief and shame. I know I will never be Phillip Roth. I’m closer to a typist than an artist. I will never make money. I am about to begin the fourth nearly-from-scratch rewrite of a book that will most likely be read by a total of three people—me, my agent, and my editor. I have no idea whether this is a very bad book or a pretty good book. I honestly don’t know whether it’s a book at all, and I assure you, that feeling won’t go away, even if someone publishes it.

And yet, I can stand here before you tonight, knowing that my life would be so, so much happier without it, knowing that the suffering seems to have no meaning at all, knowing that when I die, perhaps sooner than later given the physical toll it takes, no one will remember my name or my books—with all that in mind, I can stand here and tell you with absolute certainty that during the short number of years I have left, I will keep going. I will continue to write.

And nothing anyone does or says can stop me.