A Writer's Rant

You could spend a fortune on trying to become a writer. But how’s about getting paid for all our trouble? And how do you even know if you’re any good at it, unless you have such validation as a bestselling novel, or an article in The New York Times? Or strange ladies with a penchant for pigs, coming up to you saying: “I’m your number one fan!”

Not everyone in the local writing class is going to make it, right? How is the chaff separated from the wheat? It must be a combination of pure luck and persistence. I’m just waiting for the luck part to kick in.

Who would choose such a difficult route in life? Surely, there must be an easier way to make no money?

Yesterday, I loved writing. Today I hate it. Tomorrow is another day…

It’s hard and often unrewarding. There are days when I want to quit and go laze on a beach for the rest of my life. Wouldn’t it be easier not to strive, not to persist, not to be constantly knocked down and rejected?

But I guess I’m a bit of a masochist because as hard as it is, I just can’t stop. I’m stubborn you see. It must be the Celt in me. I’m going to fight (in a nice, writerly sort of way) for my place on bookshelves, or e-readers, or wherever. I’m not giving up…just yet.

So back to the rant…

I write fiction and non-fiction and find reality to be much easier to handle. In fact, with non-fiction I welcome criticism, it helps me improve, and I get to work on my weaknesses and further enhance my strengths. I’m even getting to the point where I almost enjoy writing query letters.

But fiction is different. I love my books as if they were my children, and when someone offers their opinion, they may as well have walked into the delivery room, after 2 days of a difficult labor and casually said: “your baby’s kinda ugly.”

Why the difference? I think it’s what goes into the work that makes fiction writers so much more testy and sensitive. We perform hare kare with our souls. We expose ourselves on the page, opening a door to our inner worlds.It’s often messy, we didn’t clean up before you barged into our rooms. There’s a sink full of dirty dishes, and cat hair on the mat. Did we even clean the litter box? So it’s personal and raw.

“There is nothing to writing, all you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”

The famous quote, attributed to Hemingway (although other writers previously used different versions of it) pretty much sums it up: “There is nothing to writing, all you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”

I’ve found the process of writing fiction both magical and laborious. Getting the first draft down is an intense process. The story seems to write itself. Once I start tapping out words, there comes a point when it takes off. Thoughts, scenes, storyline, are coming so fast, that I write in a frenzied fog. 10 hours whizz by with techno music blaring in the background, housework left untouched; my preschooler glued to PBS Kids. I don’t even break for lunch when I’m in the zone.

My characters start dictating what they’re going to do and say. I’m just the hired help. And the bearded muse sits in the corner nodding his head, staring over his pince-nez, a lit pipe dangling from his mouth, “keep going, just keep going, you’ll get there,” he says in a gruff, but kind voice. Sometimes he winks.

Something out of nothing

By now characters can seem like real people and you’re getting well acquainted. You may even spot one of them squeezing melons at the produce section of the grocery store. “It’s how you can tell if they’re ripe,” Georgina tells you, the murder victim in your mystery novel, who just yesterday only existed on your computer. “Have we met before? You seem familiar?” she asks. You grin politely, “No, don’t think so,” turn abruptly and whisper to yourself, “what have I done?”

And the end result is a story that didn’t exist before. Something is created out of nothing, and it feels good. I like coming back to my work a few weeks later with a red pen, when it’s time to revise. It’s like dusting an already clean and tidy room. The heavy lifting is done.

Pissing on your bonfire

Then someone else reads it and offers their opinion. An outsider. The dream ends abruptly. The spell ruptures. The magic is demolished. They’re pissing on the bonfire you so meticulously built. Enchantment turns into drudgery.You’re back in school, clutching a report card that screams, ‘she could do better.’ It’s not encouraging and not conducive to creativity. Now it’s as if your book baby is being put down or bullied, and mama don’t like it, no sir. We have to protect the offspring of our imaginations. The lioness crouches.