Inside the echo
I started this blog a while ago to get more accustomed to jotting down my thoughts. It's mostly a secret blog, which I understand is incredibly bizarre -- something essentially anonymous on the most public forum ever known. I also walk a fine line: I don't reveal too many personal details and certainly don't get overly introspective to the point of self-pity.
But truth be told, self-pity was likely the catalyst for starting these blogs.
For many years, I've wondered what the term "failed writer" meant. How could someone fail at something done for such personal enjoyment? Typically, there isn't a ton of money to be made in writing of any kind; it's one of those skills absolutely anyone with a sixth-grade education could do. Most popular novels are written at a sixth-grade level for a reason.
So, this blog was my exploration into the status of "failed writer." I wanted to know if I had joined that illustrious group of downtrodden, world-weary wordsmiths who likely spent most of their time trying to organize an ever growing jumble of random words and ideas skittering throughout their minds. This blog was (is?) an effort to let some of those skittering thoughts out of my mind and onto a public forum -- an action that gives me the impression that I'm doing something with these thoughts, rather than dumping them into a Word document never to be seen by another human being.
This is an echo chamber and here I am, hearing the resonance of my own words. Typically, I write fiction -- novels and short stories. As a kid, I read a lot. Before I decided to write, I would have a narrative in my head and listen to it shape what I was thinking and feeling; I was a character in my own novel. It wasn't until years later I got the idea to begin writing.
Here's the thing about my narratives, though. I've been published once. One novel published by a publisher that skirted the border between legitimate publisher and vanity publisher. I didn't pay for the book to be published, but it also wasn't available in book stores and no stock was kept; it was an "on-demand" publisher. It's a more common thing, nowadays, but back in 2001, it was practically a kick in the teeth to someone who aspired to see his name on a book jacket.
I soldiered on and wrote three other books. None was published. I fired my agent and went about looking for another. That's when it fell apart. After ten years of writing novels, I queried agents for years and finally went to a writer's conference (something I had avoided), met an agent in my genre and talked her into reading my latest book. I sent it to her and waited.
Her rejection wasn't unkind, and years later, I looked again at it and found it to be not at all damning. But at the time, it was the last rejection. I gave up. I stopped writing fiction. I stopped trying. I resigned myself to the reality that some people just aren't good enough. Sometimes, we're called to do things we have no hope of accomplishing. The world is full of tragic stories and hardly anyone is fortunate enough to realize his or her dreams. I was just one more such story.
So, here I am, mostly anonymous. Failed, perhaps. This blog is a way of coping with that -- and in that, ironically, there is hope. I'm called back to writing, even if I'm not wanted. I keep pushing my way to the table, even though I know I'll be ignored.
After ten years of not writing a word of fiction, I've begun again... slowly. The narrative in my mind asks me what could be the point, why bother without ability? My grammar is occasionally terrible, my ideas tend to be not fully realized and my phrasing can be clumsy enough to jab at a reader's mind like a drunken prizefighter. But I persist in this. Not because I refuse to fail, but because writing isn't a pass/fail situation. It's a life lesson, really. None of the creative pursuits in life are pass/fail; this is a lesson for all artists.
I've resisted making this echo chamber an online journal, but perhaps my lesson learned is worthwhile to any other artists who might be labeled as a failure. The art is always first for the artist. Do it to please yourself, like this blog, to empty the ideas from your head. Criticizing others is easy, too easy. Creating is far more noble.
But truth be told, self-pity was likely the catalyst for starting these blogs.
For many years, I've wondered what the term "failed writer" meant. How could someone fail at something done for such personal enjoyment? Typically, there isn't a ton of money to be made in writing of any kind; it's one of those skills absolutely anyone with a sixth-grade education could do. Most popular novels are written at a sixth-grade level for a reason.
So, this blog was my exploration into the status of "failed writer." I wanted to know if I had joined that illustrious group of downtrodden, world-weary wordsmiths who likely spent most of their time trying to organize an ever growing jumble of random words and ideas skittering throughout their minds. This blog was (is?) an effort to let some of those skittering thoughts out of my mind and onto a public forum -- an action that gives me the impression that I'm doing something with these thoughts, rather than dumping them into a Word document never to be seen by another human being.
This is an echo chamber and here I am, hearing the resonance of my own words. Typically, I write fiction -- novels and short stories. As a kid, I read a lot. Before I decided to write, I would have a narrative in my head and listen to it shape what I was thinking and feeling; I was a character in my own novel. It wasn't until years later I got the idea to begin writing.
Here's the thing about my narratives, though. I've been published once. One novel published by a publisher that skirted the border between legitimate publisher and vanity publisher. I didn't pay for the book to be published, but it also wasn't available in book stores and no stock was kept; it was an "on-demand" publisher. It's a more common thing, nowadays, but back in 2001, it was practically a kick in the teeth to someone who aspired to see his name on a book jacket.
I soldiered on and wrote three other books. None was published. I fired my agent and went about looking for another. That's when it fell apart. After ten years of writing novels, I queried agents for years and finally went to a writer's conference (something I had avoided), met an agent in my genre and talked her into reading my latest book. I sent it to her and waited.
Her rejection wasn't unkind, and years later, I looked again at it and found it to be not at all damning. But at the time, it was the last rejection. I gave up. I stopped writing fiction. I stopped trying. I resigned myself to the reality that some people just aren't good enough. Sometimes, we're called to do things we have no hope of accomplishing. The world is full of tragic stories and hardly anyone is fortunate enough to realize his or her dreams. I was just one more such story.
So, here I am, mostly anonymous. Failed, perhaps. This blog is a way of coping with that -- and in that, ironically, there is hope. I'm called back to writing, even if I'm not wanted. I keep pushing my way to the table, even though I know I'll be ignored.
After ten years of not writing a word of fiction, I've begun again... slowly. The narrative in my mind asks me what could be the point, why bother without ability? My grammar is occasionally terrible, my ideas tend to be not fully realized and my phrasing can be clumsy enough to jab at a reader's mind like a drunken prizefighter. But I persist in this. Not because I refuse to fail, but because writing isn't a pass/fail situation. It's a life lesson, really. None of the creative pursuits in life are pass/fail; this is a lesson for all artists.
I've resisted making this echo chamber an online journal, but perhaps my lesson learned is worthwhile to any other artists who might be labeled as a failure. The art is always first for the artist. Do it to please yourself, like this blog, to empty the ideas from your head. Criticizing others is easy, too easy. Creating is far more noble.
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