bookfraud

With all the talk about religion in the public sphere, it’s time for my confessions.

I had a series of setbacks a week or so ago — several rejections that, while quite conciliatory, ate at me. A couple of editors said no the novel. One story was close to being accepted but nope. Another piece I thought had a chance didn’t pass muster.

I don’t know why these rejections bothered me, except to say I knew the editors for the stories, and I had high hopes for them. I happen to agree with their opinions, and I’m not mad at them — they were honest and they have to make these decisions every day, many with people they know better than me.

Still, all this nada put me in a funk, and I just had to say Fuck It for a couple of weeks. Didn’t write any fiction. Didn’t write for the blog. Didn’t even make comments to other blogs. Couldn’t bring myself to answer e-mail. Lost all sense of self. Sounds melodramatic, doesn’t it?

Wife was a bit concerned. We have a rule in the house that when someone gets a rejection, they’re allowed to pout for a day, but no longer. But the pouting continued for several days, a semi-depression that swallowed me like a…like a…well, so much that I couldn’t think of a decent simile or metaphor if my life depended upon it.

Just submitted a story

Wife noted, correctly, that writing fiction is, in itself, an enormous act of faith. You toil and strain for weeks, months, or longer, sweating out prepositional phrases and other assorted ephemera, then submit your carefully crafted 5,000 words to the whims of fate. Almost always, your work is rejected.

I consider Wife to be a great writer, but she once received 70 rejections in a single year. If that does not test your self-confidence, nothing will. I am not one to complain, but I do.

I’m not fishing for compliments or support, as that would make me even more pathetic than I feel right now.

Next time: something coherent, something that doesn’t make me cringe when I read it.

Feh.

Wife and I have had a guest the past week, which provides a great excuse for not writing, be it fiction, blog, e-mail, or in the journal. That’s why I haven’t posted anything here or surfed the Web fantastic to steal ideas from other blogs.

That the guest happens to be my mother-in-law is even a better excuse. No, I get along great with my in-laws, who are wonderful folk, but that our guest is family means that I’m supposed to be spending every free moment with her, even though, in this case, the guest happens to be parked in the kitchen, cooking non-stop (I’ll explain another time).

Procrastination is the scribbler’s eternal enemy. A writer was once asked for a magazine story what was his favorite means of procrastination. “Stupid magazine interviews like this one,” he said.

There aren’t any magazines asking for my opinions on procrastination, in-laws, or anything else of note. Still, I really should be writing more. It gnaws at my soul. I’ve been conditioned, you see. That’s because, as a writer of fiction, you are told repeatedly the reason for your existence. That ethos one can be summed up in one sentence: If you don’t write every day, you’ll die.

The corollary to that rule is if you don’t feel that way, you’re not a real writer. Writers live to write, and that is all that should matter.

Couldn’t agree more

This worldview took a serious hit a few years ago. I was at a writers’ conference, and this blowhard teacher told the class that every single day he locks himself in his room for three hours to write. “I am not to be disturbed under any circumstance,” he said, rather breathlessly. Why? Because he is a Serious Artist writing Serious Fiction to be Read Seriously. What about an emergency? Could he be bothered with the news that Junior got hit by a truck? No, he said. Don’t interrupt me, ever. I am writing Literature.

Nothing was going to stop this guy: not visiting in-laws, not family emergencies, not a tsunami wrecking his home. He will work undisturbed for three hours. Because. He. Is. A. Writer.

But I knew he’d stop writing when his dick fell off from gangrene, which happens when you beat off three hours a day.

I lack such discipline (for writing, that is). TV works its magic with an evil subtlety. Why write when there’s a Law & Order marathon on! Even though I’ve already seen each goddamn episode twice? Hey, is that MXC? South Park? WWE? And what about the VH1 “I Love the 70s80s90s” back-to-back-to –back-to-eternity-and-nihilism? The warmth of the blue glow beckons me like the sirens.

Then there’s the Web. Write that story that’s been nagging at me for 13 years? Hell no — surf’s up! I’ll check out the Web for news, Cubs lowlights, N.Y. real prices, porn, you name it. Haven’t heard that Pat O’Brien phonesex voicemail. Gotta hear it. Haven’t seen the “Dancing Baby” video in quite some time. Why the hell not? Just as long as I don’t have to write.

And then there’s completely pointless computer work, the stupidest reason to procrastinate. This is what guys (like myself) who don’t own a car do instead of work on the car. I’ll install a few new programs, make sure that the RAM is OK and test out some new equipment, like a remote scanner on a network that I’ll never use. Hey, how about working on that iMovie of our vacation just a little more, even though nobody wants to see it?

Eventually, though, I go back to the pen. I go back to banging my head against the wall, pressing out line after line of stunted prose that sometimes add up into a story. I’ll write and rewrite and rewrite until I’ve just about lost all hope in humanity. Then I’ll send it to a lit mag, which will reject it. And then I start all over again.

But don’t feel sorry for me, really. It’s the life I’ve chosen, and it’s not all bad. I may not be a Serious Writer with Serious Ambition, but I have managed to craft a few choice paragraphs here and there. It’s enough to be proud of, put on the tombstone.

In fact, Wife and her mother are in the living room right now, sitting on the couch, watching Judging Amy. Move over.