I mention, every now and then, that I'm a writer. I'm trying to get a book finished. I've worked very hard to complete a second draft. I'm targeting the end of July. I passed a few chapters to a friend, who passed them to her agent, who liked it and wants to see the final copy.
I'm TIRED. I work on this every day. I've sacrificed my summer to get this done. I have sacrificed most of my vacation this year to use for writing. But I haven't just sacrificed this summer; I have sacrificed the last SEVEN YEARS. This is my third novel. I graduated from Macalester College in St. Paul with a degree in Biology, and decided I wanted to start over. Wisely, I decided to start when I was still young. The reason I have The Loft displayed on the right task bar is because they were helpful in getting me started. The Loft is a non-prof institute, which, as they say on their website:
is now the nation's largest and most comprehensive literary center
I took a few classes with them to learn the basics, and was fortunate enough to be picked for their
Mentor Program, which allowed me to work for a year in a class of about a dozen other "mentees" under some really phenomenal writers from across the nation. I didn't know at the time how lucky I was to get in the program. Selection was and is contest-based. It was basically like being in an MFA program for a year; in fact, several of the "mentees" had been through MFA programs and were teachers themselves.
Anyway. Where am I going with this? A couple different places. I'm not "in" with a regular writing crowd. I don't have a pack of schoolmates who got their English degree or MFA. I have friends who write, and are successful, but we all picked it up. I have a friend who edits at a well known newspaper in the city. I have friends who have published books of poetry. I know several people who have published novels. I don't think any of us have English degrees. I only have one friend with an MFA (from the Iowa Writer's Workshop) and he's currently unemployed. His last job was as a bellhop. And you know what? Very few of the English majors I ever met actually write.
I don't read that much. I'm around books all the time, but it's a stack of about 20 novels that I continually page through to figure out
how the hell they did that. I dig through words, I mark how long authors let their characters talk, how often characters appear, what they say or don't say.
I'M TIRED.
I've been working seven years, writing, tossing, writing, reading, tossing, studying, writing tossing and againandagainandagain
I read a few copies of "Writer's Digest" last night. They've been lying on my counter for months, building in numbers. An aunt got me a subscription for Christmas. The only thing I could think as I read through them was
why would anyone who is trying to write read this?
Is this what that pool of English majors are doing? It's depressing. It's self-defeating. I read an article about a guy who's finally demanding he GET PAID for his writing.
Well no shit.
People occasionally ask me why I tossed my last two novels.
Let me be clear: I don't get down on my work. I LIKE to read my own words. I don't think my novels were bad, but they weren't what I wanted to publish. I started and finished them KNOWING they would end up in a drawer, because I was learning. I wrote thirty short stories, because I was learning.
I'm a patient SOB.
I started this book knowing, at the start, that I wanted to put my name on this thing and publish it.
Where am I going with this? A few places.
Why are the writers in this magazine schlepping around doing free readings all over town? Here's the way it is, people: if you're not good enough to get paid for that reading, to at least have someone pay gas and accommodations, then you should be writing more, not promoting old crap that's not getting you anywhere.
This is what I've learned from this blog: It's hard to get out of debt.
Here's something else I've learned: Debt is NOT JUST MONEY.
I have a debt of time. I was spending my
time as badly as I was spending my money. I was tossing it around, putting it all on credit. I spread my time as thin as my money. I couldn't get writing done because I had to be with friends every night. I had to go to this dinner. I had to visit this town to see someone. I don't have time, I don't havetimeIdonthavetimeidontidont
Reversing that has been as hard, if not harder, than reversing my debt. We only have a limited amount of time and money in this life. Plain and simple. For that pack of English majors (and I'm sorry if this is a bad stereotype), you have to
write. A few words a day, if nothing else. You don't promote yourself before there's something to promote. I can at least say this: I've been paid for everything I've published, and I've published quiet a few things, if in odd nooks and cranies. Even this blog pulls in a few bucks a month. Not enough to get paid
every month, but a few dollars.
IT IS ALL ABOUT WRITING.
And if you're not a writer, this still goes for you, too. If you're a banker (and you like being a banker) THAT'S what it's about, and if that's not it, then get a different job. If you tied yourself down with life and kids AND a shitty job, well damn, not to be depressing, but you just wasted your life. I'm not saying people should be artists--far from it! I want as clear a field as I can have. But your job ISN'T that thing you do from 9-5, between the weekends when you really live. Your job, what you are, defines you, and you should work hard at it, and you should be consumed by it for those 8 hours a day, so you can go home and be proud of yourself. So you can make love to your spouse with vigor, because you earned it. I have great examples of success in my family. My sister is a surgeon at Harvard. My cousin is an investment banker who is about to retire at 40 with a string of wine bars in Singapore, for god's sake. Neurosurgeons and lawyers and architects, and none of these people, NONE OF THEM, would consider themselves geniuses. They just worked really really hard, and loved their jobs and their lives. And they planned. Not perfectly. They didn't, by far, get everything right. Maybe one in five things actually worked. But that's enough.
This is enough.
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