I published my sixth novel last week and it was received with sensationally minimal fanfare and applaud. I don't mean to negate the enthusiastic response I did receive from the kinder members of my family and friends, but for those of you who spend many waking hours on your literary creations, I'm sure you know what I mean. The elation one feels at typing the last word, correcting the last error, rewriting the last awkward paragraph, and then making the grand announcement to everyone you know and love, can quickly fade away in the virtual silence that follows this triumph.
Okay, the truth is that I'm the world's worst marketer, so possibly this has something to do with the continuing turn of events regarding my so-called writing career. I'm not on Facebook for starters, a fact which my children continually remind me of by trying to chat with me concerning major family events and then adding, oh yeah, you don't know about that because you're not on Facebook! I used to claim it was because I was a teacher, but the truth is, like everything else technical, I'm simply afraid of trying to make it work.
It's also true that every time I go in a Bookstore and try to talk them into stocking my novels, I panic and run out the door as soon as they say no...or even, hmmm...I'm not sure if we can do that. My other response is to try and console them when they explain how hard it might be to carry my books. Suddenly I'm on their side and I don't understand why. Weren't these the same people who just a few minutes ago basically told me that a 60-something Indie writer is not worth their time or energy?
My personal favorite in response to my efforts are the old friends from my youth who tell me they never read fiction. Do they not recall the smutty novels we all passed around as teenagers? And what self-respecting, late 60s St. Lawrence University student never read the Electric Kool Aid Acid test?
And if you're a struggling writer like me, I'm sure you've also had a friend call and ask to drop by, then just happens to bring along an "edited" copy of one of your published novels to "help you out." Help you out with what? Expanding your already shattered ego?
Or the published mystery writer, whose books (even though you don't like mysteries) you bought and reviewed, hoping for some of the same in return, only to have said writer tell you they would, but they didn't want to pay for them. I've personally also read and reviewed glowingly five poetry books by old friends I haven't seen since the Bush era (the first Bush), but I'm pretty sure they don't have an Erni Johnson first edition of their very own.
Okay, this is the post-publication downer we all experience...at least the "all we" writers that I know and talk to (let's just say that neither John Grisham nor Anne Tyler have invited me to tea recently). It can be a bummer, right? But certainly not the end of the world, especially when one's world is, as mine is, pretty damn nice otherwise.
When I taught American Literature, I used to drag a fair amount of unsuspecting high school juniors through parts of Thoreau's Walden (I knew better than to assign the whole thing!) You know Thoreau, right? He's the guy who led the protest against paying government tax and then built a "rustic" cabin on his friend Emerson's property (for which Thoreau paid no taxes), and then walked home several nights a week to eat dinner with his mother (who also did his wash, by the way). But I have to admit, he was incredibly quotable. Okay, not the "simplicity, simplicity" stuff, but when he pointed out that true happiness lay in an "infinite expectation of the dawn."
I must confess, I am a sucker for that concept. But fortunately, equally so, for what Kurt Vonnegut noted in Slaughterhouse Five, when he wrote "and so it goes." Yup, it sure does.
Saturday 23 November 2019
Sunday 3 November 2019
Great Expectations
Recently, two close friends of mine became grandparents for the first time. Granted we just visited our first grandchild at college, and in two weeks our youngest grandchild will officially become a teenager; but I still remember the feeling when the first one arrived...and each successive one, for that matter, because that unfamiliar feeling of elation never changes, no matter how many come along (one of my friends is expecting grandchild #18...). Maybe it's because you've been "Mom" for so long (albeit spoken in various tones of voice over the years), that it startles you when, rather abruptly, you realize you will now be someone else as well. Even though it will be at least a year or so before someone actually calls you that, from that moment on, you have become Grandma (or Grammy, or Nona, or whatever has been decided your alter ego will be).
When my oldest grandson, Evan, was about three and he was in the process of learning letters and numbers, I gave him a set of alphabet blocks. Turning over the "E" and handing it to him, I cheerfully pointed out that both our names began with the same letter. He looked at me with some confusion and then inquired, "Grandma begins with an E?" It was then I realized my transition to this new identity was complete. This was further emphasized when my next-in-line granddaughter, Brooke, at age four was beginning to sort out all her grandparents (she had nine at that point, including "Greats"). She looked at me rather quizzically one day, then asked, "what was your name before it was Grandma?"
Actually, the most interesting aspect of becoming a parent or grandparent is etymological; i.e., the way in which our society (or at least the English speaking part) has chosen to express the impending arrival of new offspring...we say that So-and-So is "expecting." This is followed by a chorus of oohs and aahs and occasionally hugs from people you would just as soon didn't.
I think my father expressed it most symbolically when, on hearing my brother and his wife (who already had two children, a boy and a girl) were "expecting" their third child remarked, "what are they expecting to get?" Of course, my brother and sister-in-law did go on to acquire three more kids, and I ended up with a third by default when said additional child was already 10. Interestingly, though, my parents...those staunch believers in the idea that everyone should simply have one boy and one girl, as they did...never stopped bragging about all nine of their grandchildren.
But "expecting" what? I want to ask in my most cynical moments. Eighteen years of sleepless nights up to and including when they are driving your car around in the dark or waiting tearfully by the mailbox for college acceptance letters? When you are "expecting," of course, none of the potential frustrations and downsides of parenthood (or grandparenthood) ever occur to you. For some unknown reason, in all your pre-baby daydreams, the weather is always perfect, everyone is always smiling and laughing, you receive endless declarations of love and appreciation, and no one ever has the flu.
So what does all this have to do with writing? (Because this is, after all, a blog in which I am supposed to be writing about writing...). There is actually a connection, believe it or not, and a rather strong one at that. While it's true that no one actually "decides" to become a writer (since most of us can't help ourselves), there still is a moment when one admits or maybe even announces to someone else that they officially are one...and then hopes for a response that meets one's expectations. Not unlike, if you think about it, becoming a grandparent.
For many years, I hand wrote my poems and stories, usually in old college notebooks, or on large yellow legal pads, when I sat in interminable faculty meetings pretending to be listening and taking notes. So for me, the first admission of truly being a writer came when I actually typed something and perhaps even let someone else read it. The latter, by the way, is an incredibly humbling (if not downright depressing) experience equivalent to the first time you try to put your grandchild in a modern car seat.
The next time I let it be known that I was an actual writer came when I submitted a story to a competition I felt sure I would win...and two days later received a cheerfully worded rejection letter encouraging me to try again another time (and pay another entry fee while I was at it). I equate this to buying six tickets for Disney on Ice with the expectation of taking your whole band of merry little grandchildren to this event (and thus winning Grandma of the year award); only to find out that they already went to see it with their other grandparents.
But the ultimate acceptance of my new identity (i.e., as an author) came when I began to publish my novels. Again, the feeling of seeing your name on the cover of an actual printed book is one of immediate euphoria: could this really be you? The woman who once had reams of unfinished stories and mediocre poetry stashed in a dozen cardboard boxes in the attic, now truly has something out there for everyone to read and admire?
The expectation, of course, is that your book will be a best seller, with any number of publishers and agents banging on your door and demanding more of the same. And the movie rights? To whom will you finally award this honor? Ron Howard? Hallmark? Spielberg? So many choices. The reality, of course is far different, as I'm sure I don't have to explain to anyone reading this blog who writes...and to those who are aspiring to...sorry, spoiler alert.
This is similar, actually to when your granddaughter sends you a homemade Valentine, even though she's 13 and this would be decidedly uncool if anyone found out, so you're not allowed to tell anyone. Or, when your grandson at age 10, informs you that you are his "favorite Grandma" even though you didn't even buy him anything recently, but you had no idea there would come a time when he'd live so far away that you wouldn't see him for two years. Euphoria, yes, but fulfilled expectations, not so much.
The bottom line, of course, is that we writers are a delightfully unrealistic breed. Otherwise, how would we survive in a vocation where one is supposed to be incredibly imaginative and creative, at the same time one is dealing with some of the most discouraging realities? Like one's children or grandchildren, an author's work is a source of love and pride, and frequently a sense of personal accomplishment that in the long run generally exceeds the not so rewarding moments. As for the rest of it? Well, what was I really expecting anyhow?
When my oldest grandson, Evan, was about three and he was in the process of learning letters and numbers, I gave him a set of alphabet blocks. Turning over the "E" and handing it to him, I cheerfully pointed out that both our names began with the same letter. He looked at me with some confusion and then inquired, "Grandma begins with an E?" It was then I realized my transition to this new identity was complete. This was further emphasized when my next-in-line granddaughter, Brooke, at age four was beginning to sort out all her grandparents (she had nine at that point, including "Greats"). She looked at me rather quizzically one day, then asked, "what was your name before it was Grandma?"
Actually, the most interesting aspect of becoming a parent or grandparent is etymological; i.e., the way in which our society (or at least the English speaking part) has chosen to express the impending arrival of new offspring...we say that So-and-So is "expecting." This is followed by a chorus of oohs and aahs and occasionally hugs from people you would just as soon didn't.
I think my father expressed it most symbolically when, on hearing my brother and his wife (who already had two children, a boy and a girl) were "expecting" their third child remarked, "what are they expecting to get?" Of course, my brother and sister-in-law did go on to acquire three more kids, and I ended up with a third by default when said additional child was already 10. Interestingly, though, my parents...those staunch believers in the idea that everyone should simply have one boy and one girl, as they did...never stopped bragging about all nine of their grandchildren.
But "expecting" what? I want to ask in my most cynical moments. Eighteen years of sleepless nights up to and including when they are driving your car around in the dark or waiting tearfully by the mailbox for college acceptance letters? When you are "expecting," of course, none of the potential frustrations and downsides of parenthood (or grandparenthood) ever occur to you. For some unknown reason, in all your pre-baby daydreams, the weather is always perfect, everyone is always smiling and laughing, you receive endless declarations of love and appreciation, and no one ever has the flu.
So what does all this have to do with writing? (Because this is, after all, a blog in which I am supposed to be writing about writing...). There is actually a connection, believe it or not, and a rather strong one at that. While it's true that no one actually "decides" to become a writer (since most of us can't help ourselves), there still is a moment when one admits or maybe even announces to someone else that they officially are one...and then hopes for a response that meets one's expectations. Not unlike, if you think about it, becoming a grandparent.
For many years, I hand wrote my poems and stories, usually in old college notebooks, or on large yellow legal pads, when I sat in interminable faculty meetings pretending to be listening and taking notes. So for me, the first admission of truly being a writer came when I actually typed something and perhaps even let someone else read it. The latter, by the way, is an incredibly humbling (if not downright depressing) experience equivalent to the first time you try to put your grandchild in a modern car seat.
The next time I let it be known that I was an actual writer came when I submitted a story to a competition I felt sure I would win...and two days later received a cheerfully worded rejection letter encouraging me to try again another time (and pay another entry fee while I was at it). I equate this to buying six tickets for Disney on Ice with the expectation of taking your whole band of merry little grandchildren to this event (and thus winning Grandma of the year award); only to find out that they already went to see it with their other grandparents.
But the ultimate acceptance of my new identity (i.e., as an author) came when I began to publish my novels. Again, the feeling of seeing your name on the cover of an actual printed book is one of immediate euphoria: could this really be you? The woman who once had reams of unfinished stories and mediocre poetry stashed in a dozen cardboard boxes in the attic, now truly has something out there for everyone to read and admire?
The expectation, of course, is that your book will be a best seller, with any number of publishers and agents banging on your door and demanding more of the same. And the movie rights? To whom will you finally award this honor? Ron Howard? Hallmark? Spielberg? So many choices. The reality, of course is far different, as I'm sure I don't have to explain to anyone reading this blog who writes...and to those who are aspiring to...sorry, spoiler alert.
This is similar, actually to when your granddaughter sends you a homemade Valentine, even though she's 13 and this would be decidedly uncool if anyone found out, so you're not allowed to tell anyone. Or, when your grandson at age 10, informs you that you are his "favorite Grandma" even though you didn't even buy him anything recently, but you had no idea there would come a time when he'd live so far away that you wouldn't see him for two years. Euphoria, yes, but fulfilled expectations, not so much.
The bottom line, of course, is that we writers are a delightfully unrealistic breed. Otherwise, how would we survive in a vocation where one is supposed to be incredibly imaginative and creative, at the same time one is dealing with some of the most discouraging realities? Like one's children or grandchildren, an author's work is a source of love and pride, and frequently a sense of personal accomplishment that in the long run generally exceeds the not so rewarding moments. As for the rest of it? Well, what was I really expecting anyhow?
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