The Tale of Two Writers: A Choose Your Own Adventure

I recently had an enema  / bloodletting  / conversation with a fellow writer who I've known for a long time but hadn't spoken to in years (and was reminded, perhaps, why I don’t speak often with this person). In the past ten years, this writer has graduated from an MFA program, found a job, and published a book on an independent press. Not bad. That said, as is most often the case, the book (despite being well-written) hasn't made this person rich or famous, a household name. (We’d all love to sell as many books as Stephen King, right? But most writers realize quickly that it probably isn't going to happen.)

Most writers. . . .

“It’s so unfair,” my writer-acquaintance bitched  / whined  / said. “I deserve to be a big name writer. I’m a great writer—my work should be a thousand times more popular than it is. I should be selling ten times the number of books I’m selling now. I should be a household name. No kidding, I deserve that level of recognition, and no one will ever convince me otherwise.”

This writer also went on about why his/her newest book deserves to be published, too. (As you can probably tell, “deserve” was the word of the day.)

I didn't say much of anything—I focused on my Yuengling bottle (a treat, now that I've started watching what I eat and drink), enjoyed the changing of the seasons here in Morgantown, thought about what breed of dog I’d own if my apartment would allow it—and when my writer-acquaintance finally finished writing his/her acceptance speech, I flipped the table and took out as many people as I could before security arrived  / burped loudly and said, “that’s what I think about your problems”  / nodded sympathetically and said something bland and noncommittal like, “boo hoo, cry me a river, chump”  / “I hate you so much--now do you think they’ll bring us more bread sticks?”  / “I’m sorry you’re having such a rough go of it.”

I've gone back and forth over blogging about this septic tank overflow  / pity party  / lunch conversation because it seems to me a dangerous mentality that we should discuss, and yet I didn't want to do anything to feed this writer’s enormous ego  / actively harm this writer. Eventually, the desire to talk about the experience won out. (If my writer-acquaintance reads this and doesn't want to come to my weekend barbecues anymore, I’ll rejoice  / survive  / live with the consequences.)

My problem doesn't lie with this writer's confidence. I think that every writer needs to be a little cocky at times—if you’re doing the hard work, reading and writing regularly, approaching revision seriously, then you have to be confident that what you've produced is worth being read, worth publishing, and that someone out there will recognize that. Otherwise, you aren't going to make it. 

Should you think of yourself as a great writer? If it gets you to turn on your laptop each morning and start typing, sure. But I’d also caution against almost certain disappointment. If you’re putting words on paper because you want to be a writer, and you’re hoping someone else will notice and praise you for it, I have a bridge to sell you  / strongly advise you not hold your breath for too long  / believe you are in a great position to reevaluate your priorities. If you’re putting words on paper because you love to write and you feel you have something worth saying, well, then your motivations seem pretty pure to me.

It’s very natural to be discouraged when it seems like no one wants your work, or when you place a piece but feel like no one is likely to read it. You've worked hard, made sacrifices, written a book—that’s not easy to do, no small thing—but it’s worth remembering upon completing that task that the world doesn't owe you anything. Yes, you have to have faith that there is a readership out there for your work—if you love it, someone else will, too. But when I hear writers start talking about what they supposedly deserve, I find myself fighting the urge to slap them--open handed but hard, just the once  / openly mock them in front of their friends and loved ones  / get a little annoyed.

I want to see my books published. I think it’s a realistic goal. If they make any money, that’s just gravy on the top of my meatloaf, but it isn't something I ever think about when I sit down to write. And I don’t think of publication as something that has to happen just because I want it to happen, or even because I've worked hard at my writing. There are a lot of other factors at play. Timing. Marketing. Luck.

I think back to what Darrell Spencer said to me once in an email when I let slip that I was teaching his short story collection Caution: Men in Trees to my Community Writing class: “I appreciate your using the book; it always seems odd to me when I hear that someone out there is actually reading what I wrote. Strange.” This is the book that won the 1999 Flannery O'Connor Award, by the way, and the guy who wrote it is just surprised to hear that anyone is actually reading! Perhaps more revealing is the fact that he isn't acting like someone who feels entitled. He’s not complaining. If any writer deserves to be a household name, it’s Darrell—he reads three stories a day, a novel a week; writes every single day and has done so for a long time; and his work is fantastic—and yet he’s not talking about what he’s owed. He’s just glad to be writing.

Puts my young writer-acquaintance’s tantrum  / hissy fit  / concerns into a certain perspective, does it not?

So let me pose this question to you: Does anyone really deserve to be published?

Is it like a job where, if you do good work, you should be able to expect some measure of fair compensation in return? Or is it like the notion of religious salvation: you can’t really do enough to earn it (flawed as you are), but you do your best and pray for mercy?

Or maybe there’s a better metaphor out there for it. I don’t know, what do you think, dear readers?

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While you are pondering that question, check out this interesting blog entry, “After Stage,” which offers up a very different perspective on "success" from that of my writer-acquaintance.