I think most people who set out to be authors love a great story, love to hear and see great stories, and love to tell great stories. All good authors have that in common. Better authors also love expressing their ideas in language that approaches lyricism and touches the sublime. They are artisans with words and syntax, and understand how to convey a feeling or a setting as though painting with words. The best authors breathe soul and life into their work. Their readers experience their storytelling more fully and on deeper levels as they admire the author’s skill. Such an author enriches the lives of their readers because they convey insights into the human condition often in a fresh way that causes readers to appreciate a new perspective.
An author is a creator, just like a fine arts painter, or a music composer, an architect, an engineer, a teacher, a singer, a musician, or a talented administrator. And because this is true, the act of writing, the craft of telling an engaging story is enough to keep an author dedicated to their creative outlet for life.
I used to think that an author was only for real when they got their work published by a press or publishing house. Surely that’s the ultimate stamp of approval and acceptance, the formal endowment of recognition for the person as an author.
That point of view may hold some merit, but if you fully buy into it, you may die with never having achieved your goal. Consider Vincent Van Gogh. He managed to sell one single painting while he lived and went to his grave minus an ear and public acclaim, let alone financial remuneration. Now one of his paintings brings a fortune. How many US authors may share such a fate?
I may be one of them.
Most of my work is too long. I‘ve never gotten even an essay published. My work’s too controversial. I haven’t devoted hundreds of hours to building my brand on social media. I’m an aging white baby boomer who had a reasonably happy childhood. I served my country and worked my whole life raising a family and taking care of my house and property, and my health. And along the way I’ve written six novels mostly in the early morning hours before going to work, and on weekends.
Maybe my luck just hasn’t clicked? Maybe I just haven’t caught an agent on the right day with the right story, or the right pitch letter?
And maybe I’m getting to the place where I just don’t care if I ever do.
At a recent writer seminar, a small press publisher said “people don’t read anything over 120,000 words.” While many authors can dispute that, I say, “So what?!”
I’m writing. I’m having fun writing stories and poetry that I think readers will enjoy. I’m digging the process and creative outlet. If the publishing industry one day agrees, great. Otherwise: So what?
