The passion and pain of writing
From vanity to authenticity
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OK, take it away, Brenda!
The passion and pain of writing
Vanity publishers. Tsk, tsk. We shake our heads knowingly. We would never succumb to their siren’s song just to see our name in print. Yet we face this stigma from the moment we reveal to others that we write. The realm of the written word is tricky. The periphery is safe ground. You’re a publisher? Fine job. Editor? What skill. Reporter? How exciting, what do you cover?
But move to the nucleus of creating the written word and risk the tension. Writer? Really, what do you write? Have you sold much? (Smirk—who does she think she is? Probably has illusions of being JK Millionaire.) We’re put on the defensive. We must justify our passion by shouting, ‘But I’m published!’ (Wide-eyed turn of the head—well, I’ve never heard of her.)
Ah, not me, we might say, I don’t write just to see my name in print. See the proof: I use a pseudonym. Or, perhaps, the pseudonym was created because we felt ourselves so clever that we could craft a name that would sell—in big, bold, take up half the book cover letters sell—better than the name fate had cast upon us with its lack of market-savvy. Isn’t it all about selling our words?
Somewhere in the writer’s transformation into salesman, the written work itself has become nearly inconsequential. It has taken second seat to the numbers. It is not whether we write well, but how well we market what we write. This transformation has shifted the balance of the writer and his writing. His work. His craft. His art. Of course, there is a whirl of literary criticism behind the question of textual autonomy, but at the forefront lies the more primary question of why we write. Why are we seen as vain, even by ourselves at times, merely because we have something to say?
Haven’t we all suffered the self-doubt that comes from the manuscript ignored, the competition not won, the proposal rejected? It’s hard to remain objective and convince ourselves that our pitch was simply not the right one at the right time. No matter how professional we are, there’s always a tinge of frustration. But I thought it was great. What if my judgment isn’t good enough? What if I’m not good enough? Oh no, I am vain after all. Are we just celebrity wannabes? Worse yet, do we have illusions of being a cut above the doe-eyed movie stars? Are we secretly aching to be in the elite club of cerebral celebrities?
One day, my young son was explaining something to his younger sister, whose attention wandered. Suddenly, he broke off and wailed with pure despair, ‘Why won’t you listen to me?’ He had unwittingly captured the frustration of a writer whose words flutter away with no reception.
I was reminded of my standard opening lecture as a teacher of English writing classes. Imagine, I tell my students, you’ve just learned you received that promotion at work you’d been hoping for. What do you do? Say ‘okay, thanks,’ and get back to work? What is that impulse bubbling inside? My students inevitably answered, ‘Tell someone!’
It is at the very base of human nature to communicate that which moves us. Even the proverbial caveman in his quest for food, clothing, and shelter, made time for cave drawings. No doubt some rich stories were shared around campfires, but their ephemeral nature was not enough to satiate his need to communicate in a tangible manner.
The most compelling characteristic of the writer is having something to say. As writers, we no doubt enjoy the labour of the writing process. Like doing a jigsaw puzzle, the very act of doing is a delight in itself. But when the last piece is completed, that fundamental drive to share, to communicate, comes bubbling to the surface. Who can nonchalantly just shove the jigsaw pieces back into their box? We leave the completed project out to gaze upon, to share, even to frame.
When our thoughts and creations are ignored or rejected it is not vanity that sours our soul, but our honest frustration wailing, ‘Why won’t you listen to me?’ When, however, our thoughts and creations are well-received, we rightfully feel not so much pride, but satisfaction. We’re fulfilled in our image of someone sitting on a train with our words in hand, that someone nodding his head saying, ‘Yes, isn’t that so true?’
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 | A guest post by
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Absolutely, Chris! Is it because we so believe in the text itself that we feel it shouldn’t need to be product of the hard sell?
I started reading this, thinking it was going to be an article on the trap that is Vanity Publishing. It's not, and I'm okay with that. Is it vanity that makes us write, though? I wish I had an answer for that. With me, it's more like a compulsion. I enjoy it, and have all my life. I remember in Grade 8 the teacher offered us a choice of writing an essay about some history thing -- can't remember what -- or wiring a fiction story about the same thing. I took the fiction. It was about fifteen pages long. I never stopped after that. That's probably where the writing bug bit me. Before that, I had aspirations of being an animator and working for Disney Studios. Things never work out the way you think they will.
So now I write. And I write a lot. I write for myself, first and foremost. I'm not so much an extrovert, but I force myself to do things that take me out of my comfort zone. I read my stuff on line now, and that's as uncomfortable as you can get for not being an extrovert. But I put my work out there for the world to see, don't I? There's no way to explain it. I'm not introverted when it comes to that. If someone were to ask me why I put it out there, I wouldn't be able to answer. I've been writing for as long as I can remember now. Fifty years at least. How many hours is that, I sometimes wonder? I never used to send my stuff out in the beginning. I wasn't good enough, I told myself. And I wasn't. But I never quit. And now, being here, I know I'm good enough. I don't compare myself to others because we're all different. I have a hard time following the required guidelines. 3,000 words for a story is way too short for me. I just can't do it, because I don't want to do it.
My one foray into Vanity Publishing was when I was 19'ish. I wrote a "poetic novel." I was just showing it to the tiler here, fixing the bathroom. It's 214 pages long. He looked and said: "Poetry?" I shook my head and said: "One poem." It was that look he gave me that made think it was all worth it. A look I hadn't seen since I was that kid in the neighbourhood pub trying to sell my 100 free copies for $5 a pop. It's that "look" that makes me go on. It's that dopamine high everyone talks about. I wrote a book, have one copy of it for myself, and now I write with the idea that people "want" to read my stuff. It's all I need to keep me going. It's enough to tell me that, as my numbers grow, people still want to read me. I may not be everyone's cup of tea; I might not be on the top of everyone's TBR list, but the ones' that do follow me and subscribe to me, "want" to subscribe and follow me, and THAT'S what makes it all worthwhile to me.