How (not) to become a writer
In my case it started out of sheer desperation.
No, it’s not what you’re thinking: I wasn’t overcome by a sudden desire for fame; nor did I find myself in dire straits financially and hoped to make a quick buck. An eternal optimist I may be, but I was (and still am) painfully aware of the long and winding road that every writer must embark upon and endure with each new creation. Whether a beginner like me, or an established bestselling author, the process is always lengthy and agonizing. A handful succeed, many more go on struggling, while the majority fall by the wayside. Disillusioned and disgusted by those harpies – the literary agents, they just give up. Sometimes rightly so, more often than not… not.
But I’m getting ahead of myself and I’ll get back to that particular rant in a later post. Now, back to desperation: I was bored; didn’t have anything to read; had already revisited several novels in my home library. Where I live, the bookshops may look impressive, but they sell mostly tat, rarely the kind of books I enjoy. Sure, they will always have a handful of bestsellers, some of them even international bestsellers, but even then these appear months after actual publication. What I do instead is order my books from Amazon. Twice a year, a couple of dozen books in each order. Preferably hardcovers. I love the feel of a satisfyingly thick and heavy book printed on quality paper. That particular day, some four years ago, I was looking forward to placing an order with Amazon, including the latest novels by two of my favourite authors. I was not happy to discover that the publishing dates for the two books had been moved ahead by more than a month. Well, fuck it, I said there and then, if I can’t buy it I’ll just have to write it myself.
Yes, that’s it. Desperation. And frustration. And a vague realisation that it may not, after all, be a hopeless task and a complete waste of time. I’d written stuff before, you see. As a teenager, song lyrics for an artsy rock band in which I was the reluctant frontman. Thereafter snippets and short stories based on my experiences in out-of-the-way exotic places and not least my frequently bizarre dreams and nightmares. Surely, I told myself, if I can write a five page story I might as well do a full length novel. That was bollocks, as I found out pretty soon. There is a chasm separating the two, with the flimsiest of tightropes strung across and no safety net. Better writers than me, I’m sure, have stumbled and fallen, never to reach the other side. In hindsight, I should’ve by right shared their fate. But I’m a stubborn bastard, as you’ll find out.
No, it’s not what you’re thinking: I wasn’t overcome by a sudden desire for fame; nor did I find myself in dire straits financially and hoped to make a quick buck. An eternal optimist I may be, but I was (and still am) painfully aware of the long and winding road that every writer must embark upon and endure with each new creation. Whether a beginner like me, or an established bestselling author, the process is always lengthy and agonizing. A handful succeed, many more go on struggling, while the majority fall by the wayside. Disillusioned and disgusted by those harpies – the literary agents, they just give up. Sometimes rightly so, more often than not… not.
But I’m getting ahead of myself and I’ll get back to that particular rant in a later post. Now, back to desperation: I was bored; didn’t have anything to read; had already revisited several novels in my home library. Where I live, the bookshops may look impressive, but they sell mostly tat, rarely the kind of books I enjoy. Sure, they will always have a handful of bestsellers, some of them even international bestsellers, but even then these appear months after actual publication. What I do instead is order my books from Amazon. Twice a year, a couple of dozen books in each order. Preferably hardcovers. I love the feel of a satisfyingly thick and heavy book printed on quality paper. That particular day, some four years ago, I was looking forward to placing an order with Amazon, including the latest novels by two of my favourite authors. I was not happy to discover that the publishing dates for the two books had been moved ahead by more than a month. Well, fuck it, I said there and then, if I can’t buy it I’ll just have to write it myself.
Yes, that’s it. Desperation. And frustration. And a vague realisation that it may not, after all, be a hopeless task and a complete waste of time. I’d written stuff before, you see. As a teenager, song lyrics for an artsy rock band in which I was the reluctant frontman. Thereafter snippets and short stories based on my experiences in out-of-the-way exotic places and not least my frequently bizarre dreams and nightmares. Surely, I told myself, if I can write a five page story I might as well do a full length novel. That was bollocks, as I found out pretty soon. There is a chasm separating the two, with the flimsiest of tightropes strung across and no safety net. Better writers than me, I’m sure, have stumbled and fallen, never to reach the other side. In hindsight, I should’ve by right shared their fate. But I’m a stubborn bastard, as you’ll find out.
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