There are some things I will not do for love or money---or any other reason. Then there are some things I will do for love that I would not do for any amount of money. Caring for my parents in their terminal illnesses was one of those situations. And there are other things I will do just for the love of it whether it is profitable or not. Writing falls into that catagory.
I have been asked more than once how many hours it takes to write a book. I have no clue. I figure my time in years, not hours. Yesterday I worked all day to write a little less than a page that you could read in two minutes. Today it went a little better and I wrote a page in half a day, but I'm a long way from finished. There is no way writing could be profitable if I was being paid by the hour.
Some people think having a book published means instant riches. Guess again! Unless a person writes something that sells millions of copies, the royalties are very slim pickin's. The writer does the hard work but by the time the publisher and bookstores have dipped their hands into the cash drawer the royalty that is left for the writer may only be twenty-five cents per book. At that rate, how many books do you have to sell to come up with even one thousand dollars? You do the math.
I'm not complaining. I just trying to make it clear that I don't write for the money. A little spare change is nice, but not the incentive. I write for the love of doing it. The problem is that once a book is finished the fun is over and the only remedy is to start another one. Sigh! Writing is a wierd self-inflicted disease that feeds on itself and is done for love rather than money.