I have a confession to share with you: I am a writer. No, not just here. Duh. I want to be the kind of writer that publishes, and not just writing a blog. In the past, I have written monthly columns for a couple of different publications, but that is not something I do anymore. A writer friend of mine (and he is an actual published writer with something like 14 books available), says if you think you are a writer and you write, then you can call yourself a writer. I have been hesitant to do so until recently. So, call me a writer, but forgive me if I still cringe a bit when I hear the words.
My definition of a writer is someone who writes material that perfect strangers who have never met you find valuable. You can define value any way you want.Value is a relative thing, and maybe a time-relevant thing too. Value can be expressed in money, a following, general appreciation or word of mouth fandom. Of course, every writer inevitably needs to get compensated in order to keep doing it. I am shallow in that way.
My previous columns are old enough now that they are not available anymore, even electronically. My columns are basically dead and buried, as if they had never existed. Does that make me a writer still?
I recently made a switch from writing non-fiction to writing fiction. I have always written it, but until recently I have let precious few ever read it. Now I am taking the plunge head first. I have just submitted a story to 31 different publishers. The odds are against me, but I am proud of the work I am doing, and I will self-publish it if no one buys it.
I have a pretty thick skin, and I know the publishing world is filled with apocryphal stories of great books rejected by every publisher until their prose finally finds a home and becomes a bestseller. Yes, yes, all that is true. Thank you Harry Potter. But the number of people who have written something decent but never found a home has to have odds that are way more than a thousand to one. The effort required just in submitting work makes for an investment in our time and heart. It is one we want to see a return on eventually. Submitting is tiring, not at all fun, and feels like what it is: a meat grinder. Now I myself love the taste of good sausage, but imagine the perspective of the pig. That's what it feels like. I give a piece of my flesh or my heart, and in return I want someone to say they found it worthwhile.
It seems like everybody in the world feels like they have the Great American Novel hidden somewhere inside them. Maybe they do, but making the effort to tell that story, tell it right, and then work hard to find a home for it, requires Herculean effort that is not for the fainthearted. I am fortunate that I have a few people who encourage me in my work. They keep me going, for the journey is risky and the task arduous.
Am I up to this challenge? I think so, but only time will tell. The short story master Raymond Carver said in an interview in the Paris Review that he would sometimes completely rewrite the same short story ten to fifteen times before he felt that it was right. Now that's commitment. Mr. Carver is now long dead from suicide, and people like me are trying to emerge and take his place. Wish us well, and pray for sunnier days ahead.
