On Being a Writer

Today is the last day of my 21-day blogging challenge. It has been an interesting experience and here’s what I’ve learned.

1. Blogging isn’t all that difficult. Like anything else you write, it just takes self-awareness. Being fully present in the world helps to identify subjects that peek your interest.
2. Like that pesky novel that took three years to complete, the first draft is never perfect. Like all good things, it takes time.
3. Practice makes perfect. The more you do it, the easier it is.
4. Think about the reader. It’s easy to scratch out something that appeals only to you, but as a writer, you’re part of the world. And though professionals might advise avoiding politics and religion, if that is what captures your imagination and resonates with your audience – write about it.
5. Enjoy the time that you spend crafting your blog. If you approach it like a task to be accomplished, it’ll read that way.
6. There are no rules. Prose, bullet points, short paragraphs, videos, pictures, embedded music – whatever floats your boat – that’s what you should do. And if you’re a purist – relying only on your wit, you’re not alone. Long after the bells and whistles have faded, the writing will stand the test.

I admit it. I gave in the other day and bought a 7-day Facebook advertisement for my novel. It was an impulsive move. Much like buying that bag of peanut M&Ms at the checkout line. But unlike the chocolate – there was no sugar high.

It wasn’t hard to place the Facebook ad – even though I had no idea what I was doing. And like all things done in ignorance, it seems that I am now far more knowledgeable than I was at the moment that I hit “boost”.

Since I’m new to all of this – the business of book marketing – I’ve come to notice that there are a lot of people out there earning a living providing consulting services to authors. Many of them – authors themselves. Others, marketing gurus offering free downloads to materials that for the novice are truly helpful. These “loss leaders” lull you into a daze as you provide your email address and join, what they promise to produce for you, an expanded mailing list. Finally, you think, someone who understands this crazy business. Someone who can offer a little direction.

And you reach out for that lifesaver. Hey the water is cold. You’re floating about, banging into all these apps – Twitter, Facebook, Pinterest – grabbing on for dear life and hoping they will carry you along as you find your readers in the big bad ocean. You try to put on a happy smile. If little Shirley Temple can manage to be a delight in the face of any number of catastrophes during the Great Depression, surely you can manage to swim a few laps. But you’re not little Shirley. That toddler was a triple threat. She could sing, dance and act. You can only swim – and the doggy paddle at that.

My debut novel, The Intersect, follows the lives of fictional characters living in Phoenix, all facing a difficult challenge. While some of the characters are transitioning through retirement or coping with a marriage that is falling apart, other characters are struggling with loneliness, living a solitary existence without the support of family and friends. But the most interesting characters may very well be those existing on the edge of society – sadly looking in.

For Daisy, an independent senior, a broken hip places her at the mercy of an unfriendly healthcare system and a greedy family – she fears becoming a resident of a nursing home as she faces the challenge many seniors do – an inability to care for herself. For Henry, being a gay teenager has resulted in homelessness and a twisted self-image. He’s different from those around him – and his family has made it clear that he is not welcome. For Ernie who was raised in the United States but told as a child that he is undocumented, there is a crisis of the soul. He believes himself to be an American regardless of his status. He engenders all that is good and true of America though he lacks a driver’s license and social security card.

Each of these characters share a crisis of perspective. Their view of the world is shifted by circumstances out of their immediate control. They are no longer living among us – but apart. They have become “the other”.

By nature, human beings tend to be social creatures. Remove the supports – and discover what lies just beneath the surface. Will our better spirits prevail? Do we find a way to fight back? Can we ever feel whole in a world that tells us we are disposable?

These are the issues that capture my imagination. That make me wonder about the human condition. Each time I see a disabled senior shuttered away in a nursing home, or a homeless person sleeping in the corner of a store front, or hear about an undocumented immigrant being rounded up and deported, I wonder what life might be like on the margins of life. How do they experience the world? Is there ever enough for everyone to be loved? And do we as human beings have the capacity to reach out and offer a helping hand?

I know it is easy to walk away. We do it every day. We hurry away from things that make us uncomfortable. I do it. You do it. We all do it.

But isn’t that the reason why we are all here together? Isn’t it important to try to help each other?

I’d like to think so.

Ever since I opted to engage in this 21-day blog challenge, I’ve been amazed by how quickly I can knock out a blog. It’s not that I thought I’d be stumped, but, I do remember when I first started to read about blogging. I wondered – what the hell am I going to write about? What could I produce that might be truly interesting? It’s the same challenge that you have when writing a novel, except of course, blogging moves along a hell of a lot faster. Forty minutes and it’s over. The novel – not so much.

I think the secret to blogging might lie in the art of good conversation. An opinion is expressed, thoughts are clarified, and before you know it, you’re ready to wrap up. But the difference between blogging and a good conversation is that “you exclusively have the floor”. It’s your sheet of paper – or RSS feed. No one else around to bounce ideas. You’re alone, mind clicking away, hoping that you’re not being too much of a bore, since, let’s face it, having the floor is kind of intoxicating. No one may be listening, but you still get to have your say.

So now, after twelve days, I’m wondering if I’m whistling in the dark. This blog conversation, so much like keeping a diary, is absolutely happening in a vacuum. I share my blog on my Facebook Author page – but I don’t really have any fans yet. I tweet – but the people who tend to follow me on Twitter are trying to sell me something. My pocket seems to have a lot of hands in it while there are few eyes on the content of my writing.

And so now I wonder if all this effort might be amounting to nothing.

In my youth, I’d have engaged a therapist to help me sort it all out. The struggle to get my novel out there is daunting, depressing, and frequently demoralizing, and yet, the blogging has now replaced my need to talk to someone. My fingers are happily engaged, busily hunting and pecking. Blogs rolling out as if on an assembly line. Perhaps all of this is tremendously helpful. Maybe, I’m not whistling in the dark. Instead, I’m processing. Learning that being in the universe is not always about being read. Maybe it’s just about having your say – blogging away even if no one seems to be listening. Unearthing your opinions in the way we writers know best. By writing.

What does it take to write a break-out book? Something that excites the masses? That makes people feel that your book – and your book alone – should be read? That makes others want to buy the book?

If I knew the answer – I’d probably be well on my way.

You hear all the time that Indie books never sell beyond two hundred copies. In fact, asking an Indie author about the number of books they’ve sold is tantamount to asking how much they pay in taxes. They’d answer the question, but there might be a sour look on their face. And why not? We say we write because we love it. Because we have to do it. But in that small corner in the back of our brain, we also write to be read. To share a point of view. To explore a story that has troubled us, that is nagging to be told, even if it is only our family and friends who are destined to read it.

Okay I admit it. I want to be a best seller.

I want to be invited on with Charlie Rose to discuss how my book literally came out of nowhere. To explore what it is like to have discovered a second career so late in life. To have impacted so many lives with my witty repartee. I imagine myself empowered, insightful, the words and ideas flowing gracefully. I’m fully self-actualized as my writing is compared to the best of Steinbeck, Dreiser, Hemmingway, blushing now and then with due modesty as Charlie insists that I’m brilliant.

Hmm. That does seem a bit lofty. Perhaps out of my league.

Frankly, I’d welcome comparison to the lesser lights. Jacqueline Suzanne, Sidney Sheldon – both very successful. Or – now that I think of it – really any hack just making a buck.

It took me three years to get my novel completed, and now I realize, the trick to success isn’t just writing a great book but getting the book read. So in many ways, I’m starting all over again. Looking around and trying to figure it all out. And yes, writing that next book. Hoping that maybe two books might do the trick. It’s possible. Anything’s possible. Ah – spoken just like an Indie author.

Sometimes I think that I am too much of an open book. Too willing to share an opinion. Too happy to reveal what I am thinking. Too vulnerable to the criticism of others. And then I wonder, isn’t that what being a writer is all about? Letting people look inside, know what you’re thinking so that they get another viewpoint?

I have a friend who tends to feel sorry for himself. He is a bit brash and opinionated, and fairly self-centered. We love him because he is fun, and at times, amazingly vulnerable. Willing to say anything probably because he has few boundaries. Of course this friend happens to be a therapist. I’ve heard him say things like, “when will it be my turn?” or “why can’t that be me?” He’s very demanding, and frankly, his all-consuming energy can suck the life right out of a room. Friends come and go, but he remains unfazed. Certain of his point of view. Clinically righteous. It’s his way or the highway. Now that I think of it, we haven’t seen him in a while. Like a comet in the sky, he’s all flash and fire. You don’t want to get too close.

I, on the other hand, whither under too much scrutiny. I tend to be shaken by criticism. I don’t like being judged or analyzed, unless of course, I am paying for the privilege. But when friends jump to conclusions about who I am based on what I’ve written, I don’t particularly like it. I’m not that easily categorized. If I knew exactly what I was doing, I probably wouldn’t be a writer. Being a writer helps me get to clarity. For me, nothing can be assumed. I am a man of nuance. Subtlety. It’s all about discernment.

I’m not sure any of us are all that knowable. If we are alive, we’re changing, and sometimes, A doesn’t equal B doesn’t equal C. I’m not a mathematical problem that can be easily solved or even understood. And though I might write from one point of view with passion, that doesn’t mean I’m mired in that opinion exclusively. Things change. Things always change.

I have moments of regret when someone who has read my novel assumes that they know me well. I tend to be a private person. I do not wear my heart on my sleeve. If it appears so, that is because I have deliberately let my guard down. Writing is about the process of letting down your guard. Allowing others to look inside. Maybe there is no way around. To write, is to be judged.

Perhaps it’s time to grow a thicker skin.

I’ve come to the conclusion that the things that make me angry are the reasons why I write.

Injustice, prejudice or inconsistency … all drive me insane.

As I go through the world, my radar seems to be laser focused on those matters and when I capture a hint of it, whether among friends, family, or out in the general public, there is a bell that goes off. I call it the John Quiñones “What Would You Do” effect.

Let’s face it. Writing is hard. It requires commitment, attention to detail, and the ability to sit down and concentrate. Somehow, anger adds wind to that sail, giving me a purpose beyond merely telling a story. It highlights the angle that I want to explore. For my characters, regardless of point of view, I crave to understand what makes people tick. Why they behave the way they do? What is brewing just beneath the surface?