I’ve
written 19 books now and hundreds of articles. I’ve won book and magazine
awards. Respected literary bodies—not to mention friends, fellow writers, and
colleagues—have favorably reviewed my work. My audience, however, remains
small, as does my bank balance. Am I successful? What defines success for a person
compelled to write? These questions inevitably plague thoughtful people; no
matter where they reside in their travels from the first compulsion to express
themselves in words to their—final draft—shall we say.
I
find myself asking the following questions:
1. Has
writing made you happy and/or fulfilled?
2. If
one goal of writing is to communicate, have you successfully touched others?
3. If
another goal of writing is therapy, have you healed yourself?
4. How
important is the elegance of craft among your writing goals? Should that
supersede the mere act of effective communication—or are they inseparable?
5. How
important is the need to be recognized for what you do—as either reflected in
monetary success or number of readers reached?
I like the
process of using words to tell stories. Human beings excel at this process. In
fact, writing (and speaking) defines our species. We chronicle our successes
and failures and send them into the future with our children and tribe members,
and thus evolve culturally with a speed that far outruns genetics. So yes,
writing fulfills me because I have a talent for it that I have groomed and
exercised, producing a body of work I can be proud of. I am as happy about that
as my temperament allows.
If awards and assignments are any measure,
I have communicated successfully with at least a select group of individuals.
In the past, writers wrote and others who believed in that writer saw to it
that the words found an audience. Today, writers are expected to disseminate
their own production. Some find that much easier than others. Do we fail at
writing if we fail (or fall short) when marketing? Perhaps. But I think we are
in danger today of losing some voices (and delightful words) that may be elegant
and on point, but crafted by timid souls. Noise should not be mistaken for
music.
Regarding writing
as therapy: I remember one poet from my youth who claimed that he didn’t care
if anyone saw or heard his words. The act of creating them was enough. Perhaps
the creative act either aroused him—or healed him—in some way. Writing can be therapeutic, not to mention titillating.
You can kill your enemies in fictional stories, say everything elegantly on
paper that dies on—or tangles—your tongue in face-to-face encounters, engage in
all kinds of carnal acts or change the way somebody else perceives the world
with your words. Skillful writers become non-invasive brain surgeons, subtly
changing the chemistry along the neurons of their targets.
Have I healed myself?
To some extent, I suppose. At least I haven’t had to spend money on
professional shrinks and have not shot any friends, strangers or neighbors. I
leave my craziness on the page.
The elegance of
craft. Writers are invariably readers too. The writers I choose to read are
those who make me gasp, or cry, or tremble, or my heart change rhythm. We learn
by doing, by being told, by example—but we remember everything better or with
more clarity when the message is beautiful as well. So, I would feel less than
successful as a writer if I didn’t struggle sufficiently with telling my story
just right. I want to make my writing a work of art—something to admire not
just for the information residing there, but also for the turn of phrase that
turns information into rapturous epiphanies.
I confess. I have
always liked the teacher’s kind words or a pat on the head. I like getting
rewarded with allowances and grants for work well done. But those rewards are
insufficient. I wouldn’t want to write the same things over and over, even if
people paid me well to do it. I like the process of learning and creating
something new. I like admiring something original gleaned, but transformed,
from all the other human and original things generated by those who came before
me.
Would I write
again if granted another incarnation? Yes. To that extent I consider my writing
to be successful. The act of writing, especially when it rises within you like lava
ejected from a volcano, is an exercise worth repeating—and a very human thing
to do.
