NO RICHES? NO FAME?

This blog is getting to be a running monologue about the writing life and the life of a certain writer.

If not riches and fame, what do I want from my writing? Hot young nookie? Probably not gonna happen, unless I strike it rich. So what do I want? I have no idea. I wanted to make a living, and you can’t do that unless you make it pretty big.

Maybe that isn't reasonable to expect.

So what is? If not a million dollars for the movie rights to my first novel, then what? A nice life? No, you can't count on your writing to give you that. Meet interesting people? No. Recognition? Fame? I don't think so.

So what is reasonable to expect? 
• Publication? Maybe.
• A few fans. So far, I have one, I think: my friend Noreen, who just happens to be a good writer herself.
• Maybe a reputation as a writer’s writer? 
• A few books to leave behind? 
• Knowledge for my grandkids, after I'm gone, that gramps was a writer?  
• To have fun with the writing, or a sense of reward? I'm not sure "fun" is the right word. Sometimes writing is agony.  
• To flex my creative muscles? I can do that, for sure.

If I'm going to continue to write--and I've never been able to stop--here is what I need to do:
• No more genre stuff. Maybe my model is "Hamlet" or "As I Lay Dying," not the Dragon Tattoo books.
• Forget the bestsellers. This isn’t about money.
• Write the novels you’d like to write and like to read. These include genre elements. What my friend Tim calls genre protection.
• Write the best novels I can.

Maybe all I want is to write. To have the agony and the ecstasy of writing. I can do that. No doubt. I can't control much else. Sad but true. So that is what I'm left with, the work itself.

I leave you with three quotes by William Faulkner:
 
“It's a shame that the only thing a man can do for eight hours a day is work. He can't eat for eight hours; he can't drink for eight hours; he can't make love for eight hours. The only thing a man can do for eight hours is work.”

“Everything goes by the board – honor, pride, decency – to get the book written.”

“An artist is a creature driven by demons. He doesn't know why they choose him, and he's usually too busy to wonder why.”

Writing didn't make Faulkner happy. His own brother said, about the famous writer, "My brother Bill has the most even temper of anyone you'd ever want to meet. He's mad as hell all the time."
 
Maybe that's what I have to look forward to, working my ass off and being mad as hell all the time.
 

Copyright 2011, Roger R. Angle 

GIVING UP THE DREAM

I said yesterday I was going to quit trying to write bestsellers and just try to write the best novels I can.

Well, I don't like giving up the dream, the dream to be rich and famous. To be someone because of my work. Reminds me of that Tracy Chapman song: "I had a feeling I could be someone, be someone, be someone."

I feel like I'm giving up the dream to show the world I can do it, the dream to have whatever I want without having to worry about every little nickel I spend.

So I have mixed feelings. I’m giving up a lot. However, trying to write a great book is its own challenge. Still, I’m giving up the dream.

Here is a good example for me to follow: Darren Aronofsky says he didn’t make “Black Swan” to make money, that he is surprised at its success, that he just wanted to entertain, and that he is always drawn to characters in extreme states of emotion. Sounds like he just makes the movies he wants to make, with no thoughts for the future.

Boy, I hate to give that up, the idea of writing for the big bucks, of swinging for the fences, of going all out for what you want. I want it to be bottom of the ninth, we are two runs down, and I'm up to bat, with two men on base.

Then I want to hit a towering home run, way-way-way out of the park. I want the crowd to cheer. I mean really cheer, stand up and scream.

I want the women to cry and the children to buy my baseball cards, and the crowd to rush onto the field and carry me around on their shoulders.

Then I want to take the mike and say, "Aw shucks, folks, nuthin' to it." Later I want the major league groupies lined up around the block.

Get the picture? I don't want to give that up.

Do I have to? I think so. It kills me to say that.

Copyright 2011, Roger R. Angle