The Working Artist

One of the life realities for the vast majority of writers is that you still have to pay the bills somehow, and even the small fraction of writers who become financially successful typically aren’t successful until later in their life. Unless you want to do the hardcore starving artist thing, most writers have a separate career, even many famous authors.

J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis were both academics, George Orwell was a police officer, Kurt Vonnegut manager a Saab dealership, and so on. For my part, I’ve spent the last several years working as an automotive detailer, an inglorious but pragmatic trade that has paid the bills for my family.

When people find out I’m an automotive detailer, they almost inevitably want to know the worst vehicles that I’ve detailed. At this point in my detailing career, that’s a little like God asking Abram to count the stars. However, I’m going to try, stretching back more than five years and four thousand vehicles.   

If you have a sensitive stomach, you might want to bail here. This is going to get graphic:

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