tell me a story

A writer is a person for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people.

- Thomas Mann

A blank page – hell.

Depression, torture, unhappy thoughts – future income.

Uneventful, relatively happy days - stagnation.

Sitting alone for hours on end – contentment.

Getting rejected every day – a day at work.

Steady work for little pay – a career.

Your name in print – relief.

. . . .

A blank page – hell.

Writing is a funny thing. Telling people you’re a writer is even funnier. It’s almost like telling people you’re an actor, except they’re much more skeptical. You could tell someone you’re a financial accountant, and they’ll believe you, even if you spend your days twiddling your thumbs and checking your MySpace account, they’ll seldom ask to see what work you’ve done. If you say you’re a teacher, well, then you must really be because every day you have dozens of other people to vouch that you were standing there, talking, and ultimately teaching. But who vouches for you when you write? Who knows all the hours you spend in front of a blank screen? The chaotic, mad thoughts that went through your head? Every ounce of blood that fell from your fingers?*

Ultimately, the only person is you. And for that reason, whenever you tell people you’re a writer, they’ll half-smile, cock their head, and say, “Really?” That’s when you turn and throw your book at them . . . no, I suppose not really, especially if you don’t have a book of your own to throw, the point would be lost.

Successful writers are those who can produce work after work after work, with the knowledge that only a fraction of that will ever meet the public. The drive must be constant, the will must be strong, and the result must be exceptionally successful.

Perfectionists, depressives, obsessive compulsives, dreamers, and failures you’d think need not apply – but they are, in fact, the writers in the end we most remember.

The act of writing, of course, is only half the battle. The other exhausting half is getting someone to believe you’re worth what you’re writing, and that’s the half where most people come to a full-speed stop. Rejection. Fear. Hopelessness. Wasted time. Misplaced effort. What kind of task asks such emotion of you and expects you to do it again, fully knowing it might happen again?

Tell me a story. Make me believe it. And then you’ll be a writer.

* The phrase is both figurative and literal. If you don’t bite your fingers out of anxiety or lack of words, it’s best not to start. We’ll leave it at that.