A writer friend of mine is basically saying he doesn't want to write anything unless it's great. Which to me is the perfect recipe for writing nothing at all. How good a writer one is is a big subject. I entered into writing long ago with the goal of just finishing a book, without any expectation of it being great. Actually, that's not true. Of course, I daydreamed--but I was also realistic.
As I told him, the concept of a "failed novelist" never made any sense to me. You're a novelist or you're not. As long as you keep writing, the tale isn't told.
It's a complicated subject. Of course, it's subjective and relative. But assuming that it was possible to ascertain just how good a writer you are, and assuming you fall short of being "great," what does that mean?
I mean, it's a bit like saying you won't do a job unless you're "great." Hell, you won't live unless you're "great."
Does it matter if my store, Pegasus Books, counts as great? It's earned me a living, given me great satisfaction, and it has, in a sense, given me an identity. Does everyone like the store? Obviously not. Just read some of the reviews.
Same thing with my books, basically. It has been enormously satisfying, the scratching the creative itch is reward in and of itself. Does everyone like the books? Obviously not. Just read some of the reviews.
Let's assume that everyone hated my books. Does that mean I should just stop? Am I hurting anyone by writing them?
In the end, if you want to write, you have to put on blinders and forge ahead. Because you will be told you're a terrible writer--more than once--and I suspect you'd get that even if you were "great."
I'm a great believer that my next book will be great. By a combination of subject and work and luck and a synergy between them that I'll rise above my limitations and produce something everyone will love and that will live through the ages.
The odds are against me, but I can always try.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
2 comments:
Well, not as Grrrreat as a bowl of Frosted Flakes drenched with half-n-half, but a sight better than the blue-milk and Grapenuts I've dribbled forth so far. And surely, a year's worth of part-time learning (after a couple of novels) must count for something -- so the result, one would hope, would be better than before... Right? [mien begging for agreement]
I *know* it takes at least five to get good at this, but even that expectation instills a nuisance, self-induced obligation to be better, with every effort. The Pressure.
I know, get over it and just start writing, damn it! (With intent, not the whimsies I've spun off lately.) I do miss the daydreaming of confidences and betrayal, stolen kisses and knives to the gut.
Oh, alright.
Not to say that I'm not constantly filled with doubt, both about the worthiness overall of my writing, but for specific efforts.
I am a great believer in constant writing, but that doesn't mean everything I write is submitted for publishing.
Post a Comment