I’m a writer. I am a
writer because I say I’m a writer. That’s
all there is to it. I used to believe
that one had to be a published writer before one could claim the title of
writer. After my first published writing
credit, seeing my name in print, something I created, accepted by an editor and
printed in a publication, I realized that there was nothing very earth
shattering about that accomplishment…confetti did not rain down from the sky,
fireworks did not explode in multi-hued splendor above me. And when I spent the next eight months or so
trying to extract promised payment from that editor for my work, only to suffer
that editor’s BS and heel dragging over delivering said payment, I suffered the
indignity of watching that magazine go belly-up before I ever did receive remuneration
for my effort. Welcome to the world of a
“professional” writer. The novelty, the “glamour”
snuffed on my very first foray into the published life…
In all my years, decades now, of doggedly pursuing my
writing, I’ve suffered all the indignities a writer can suffer. I’ve been taken in by charlatans and scammers,
and watched editors butcher my words because they were too ignorant to
understand what I was trying to convey, and I’ve also endured the thousand
deaths a writer endures at each fresh rejection. If you can’t take critique and rejection, don’t
ever, never, ever, pursue the writing life…trust me on this one.
I’ve worked at my craft through all of this. Sometimes with my personal work here on this
blog, I get a bit lazy with my words and sentence structure…but when I submit
something for publication, I labor over…everything. And most any “good” writer will tell you that
they are never satisfied; that there is no piece that couldn’t do with a little
more revision. Sometimes when I see
stuff that’s already published, I get embarrassed at my mistakes and clumsy
prose. “Damn, how’d I miss that?” I
inwardly cry. Oh, the chagrin!
Even when I read other’s works, I can’t help but mentally
re-work, revise the author’s words. I
almost can’t read a novel anymore without imagining how I might have written a
particular sentence or passage, what other words I might have employed. It is truly rare, and pleasurable when I read
a really good work where I can simply lose myself as I once did in my
childhood, letting the book take me away into an inner world, a world that for
those hours of reading, was made to seem so real, where imagery in my head
becomes more than a splendid and exquisite façade, where the mechanics and
structural skeleton is not so clearly visible but becomes a flesh and blood
living thing…
I’m reading a book now that I bought at the Dollar Store a
few weeks ago. $1 for a literary novel
written by an obscure author. The story
is of a concert pianist, eastern European immigrant to America. There is much in it of classical composers
and piano and violin music, a world that I am only vaguely familiar with; I
occasionally listen to classical music but I’m by no means an aficionado. The book is not only plotted well, but the
prose and the subject is multi-layered and the writing is masterful. For now, I’m lost in its pages, lost in the
author’s world. It’s not a book that
will ever be read by the masses though; no movie will ever be scripted and
transposed to film. Shame, it would make
a wonderful movie; there are some very interesting characters and their growth
shows much depth as the novel progresses.
As I read, I’m reminded of another author, one of my favorites, who also
happened to be one of my writing professors way back when at UNH. He was an amazing writer and wrote a number
of very, very good novels. One of them
was on par with Steinbeck’s Grapes of
Wrath in scope and style and execution. Yet only a select few readers are even
aware it exists. Tragic that such talent
goes largely unrecognized.
When I read a truly masterful piece of work I am both awed
and envious sometimes; I know that I will never be as masterful with my own
writing. It’s humbling. And it’s
maddening too. Because I realize that is
what I aspire to be, a writer of quality and depth, a novelist of literary work
that has value beyond the mere monetary label ascribed on its cover. But my reality is, like this book I’m
reading, the stuff I write, if I’m lucky enough to ever publish it, will most
likely never be read by a wide audience, that what I have to say, my take on
this thing we call “life” will remain mostly in my own skull. If I’m lucky though, maybe my work will
someday be purchased on a lark by some reader looking for a cheap $1 read, and
maybe for those hours, I might take that reader on a journey into another
world, my world…and if I am ever so lucky to hold a reader’s interest, then
maybe that has a greater value than whatever financial remuneration I might or
might not receive...what recognition I may, or may not garner for my effort…
