Actually, the issue isn’t piracy. It’s copyright law.
But let me backtrack a bit.
I’ve gotten several emails from one of the regular readers of this column, pointing out to me that writing is just typing, it’s not real work. Real work involves shovels and hammers and paint brushes. Real men do real work. Real men roll up their sleeves and build things. Real men sweat.
And while I might argue with the idea that the hyperactivity of a person’s sweat glands confers some nobility, I would never dismiss the value of actual physical labor. I put myself through school working in restaurants, everything from waiting on tables to washing dishes. I sorted mail for the post office. I learned important lessons about service. I took on other jobs as well to keep myself alive. I’d come home tired, but almost every night I sat down to write.
I had a typewriter (a big mechanical thing, kind of like a computer keyboard connected directly to a printer but without a CPU, you made it work by physical labor) and almost every day I would hammer at it for hours, not getting up from the desk until I was too exhausted to roll another piece of paper into it or until my back hurt so much I could barely make it to bed. When I sold my first novel, When HARLIE Was One, it was a validation that all that typing hadn’t been worthless.