Anyone who wants to become an author or musician needs to venture into a used shop at some point in their life. In the used book store and used CD shop the writer or musician will discover just how lasting fame can be. Used shops are chock full of societal cast-offs, yesterday’s flash-in-the-pan, the would-be nobodys, and the did-be somebodys that just aren’t that big a draw anymore. Even the ones that are a big draw get cast off every now and then.

It’s a simple reminder that the world is not an easy place. If you can actually land in the limelight, the world has a short attention span.

On a completely unrelated tangent, my wife told me if I publish a book by the time I’m 32 I can grow a beard and become a cooky old man. And the book has to be sold at a real bookstore, not one of these Christian jobs. I think I’m going to take her up on that offer. I’m out of college and married now, so I can’t just grow facial hair on a whim.

Well, I’ve started writing a book. I say this with a lot of fear and trepidation. Actually, that’s a bunch of crap. I say that with a lot of pride. Pride that I hope will eventually turn into humility, but most likely will just turn to shame.

You see, I’ve always wanted to be an author. And I suppose technically I am. I’ve written a number of articles and stories and a fair number of them have been published in real magazines that a few people have actually read. Not very many people, mind you, but people nonetheless. My big dream has always been to write a book. I think this dream has more to do with an egotistical desire to see my name in print on the new releases table at Barnes and Noble.

But that probably won’t happen. And I’m beginning to come to terms with that. I’ve been reading Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird, and she reminds would-be writers that publication is nothing. Publication is vain glory, a passing breeze, meaningless. In fact, it’s probably more headache and ego-bruising than you’d experience if you never wrote anything at all. After all, who’s actually going to find my book in Barnes and Noble? And if they find it, who’s going to read it? And if they read it, who’s going to like it? Certainly my mother will read it, but that’s no guarantee she’ll like it.

So I’m beginning to accept that publication is crap. At least that’s what I keep telling myself. I have to tell myself that so I’ll stop thinking about what font I want my byline to appear in and focus on what the book is actually going to be about.

I’m writing a book on marriage. As if getting published isn’t enough ego inflation, I’m going to set myself up as an expert on marriage. Me the newlywed with divorced parents. Sounds like a long shot, huh? I suppose it is, but that’s half the fun.

The real question is why am I bothering to mention this here? I think I’m telling people because the more people that know I’m trying to write a book, the more people I won’t want to disappoint. It’s a simple psychological trick to keep myself going. So when you talk to me, fell free to ask how my book is coming. I’ll probably have developed a sleeping disorder from thinking up chapter titles by then and will be so enraged that you asked that I’ll have to hurt you; but that’s a small price to pay for a little accountability.

Let’s just hope my book isn’t as random as these thoughts, or I’m in trouble.

A broken promise and a fitful sleep. The next day ideas roll through my mind like reruns that I can’t remember if I’ve seen before. Why is it that I always want to be something I’m not? I want to be the genius writer who can astound you with his choice of words and compel you with the rhythm of his prose, a writer who can move you like the best of musicians. I want everyone to look at me, even though I don’t have anything to say. I want everyone to hear my story, even though I’ve told it before and there’s not that much to tell. I want to be on stage, even though I stutter in front of people and have no talent worth putting on stage. I want to be friends with famous people

And sometimes it just doesn’t work. I think you have to admit that. But that’s kind of what I like about writing. You can just play with it. My dad liked to build models and raise pigeons. I like to write. I’m not so much in love with sentences (as I feel I should be), as I just like to craft stories and words and watch something useful and valuable rise up from the mess of language. Some days I have it, and some days I just don’t.

I’ve found that trying to write fiction stories for these ponderings is very difficult. I don’t have time to sit down and write an entire story, so I just write chunks. Every night I sit down and try to remember how the story is coming so far. I have a rough idea in my head of how I want the story to go, but usually I haven’t thought about how that particular night’s segment will go. Sometimes I come up with a good idea and it works. Other times I feel like it’s a transition scene that needs to be cut out. It’s kind of hit or miss.

Continue reading How Do Professional Writers Do It? →

Is it okay to tell a story with no particular place to go?

You know it’s good when it captures someone’s attention. When it mesmerizes them. When it changes their mood for the entire day. The power to change someone’s day. You really have something when you can do that. Today I listened to fellow students reading selections from essays they had written. A couple of them were beautiful. I closed my eyes and listened to their every word, even the ones they stumbled over. I could picture the scene, I could see everything they were describing in perfect detail. I was there. It really changed my mood today. I walked back to my dorm yearning to give something in return to these students. They had blessed me with their work and I wanted to be able to help them in some way. Being a writer myself I recognized their talent. In a sense I was jealous of it and the attention it brought them. But at the same time I so wanted to help them. I know what it feels like to have a work sit in a drawer and go unread.

There’s something about the power of words. So often I feel like I don’t understand it at all, like I’m such a rookie writer, like I just don’t have what it takes. At those times when I read something or hear something like I did today, I just want to be close to that talent. I somehow want to position myself near that skill. I want others to see what I’ve seen. I want others to see another world.

A million magazines in a million hours with a million words for a million readers coming from a million writers and I am just one.