Artwork by Michael DiMilo
This last Saturday, I installed myself at a table at the Authors Market at the Southeast Wisconsin Book Festival to hawk copies of my novel, The P.S. Wars: Last Stand at Custer High. A lot of people stopped and engaged me in some very interesting conversations. We talked about everything from self-publishing, to harnessing Google algorithms, to marketing on Amazon, to blogging, and to the intricacies of the writing process.
Over the course of the day—during slow times—I also had a chance to talk to some of my fellow authors. There were a couple other novelists, and then some self-help mavens, biographers, and children’s book authors. There were cookbooks, political treatises, audiobooks (complete with a complimentary music CD) and cozy mysteries. There were fantasies, romances, science fiction series, and how-to books. In short, there was something for everyone. Most of these authors were there for the same reasons I was—to sell books and to network. Most of them were engaged in labors of love.
A lot of the attending authors are retired or very close to it. Some—in their previous lives—had worked as journalists or in the publishing industry, while some were practicing lawyers, and others toiled in public service. Many of us were, or are, teachers—English teachers. The one thing everyone I spoke to had in common was our love of books and/or their content. One gentleman told me about his life-long love of fishing; he had written a children’s book about a wily walleye. The author next to me had finished the first two books of a trilogy about a rock band partly because of her love for the music she had grown up with. In her acknowledgement page, she thanked—among others—Chrissie Hynde, Stevie Nicks, Linda Thompson, and other rock and roll luminaries. She also listed some of her all-time favorite songs. I wrote my own novel partly to give a voice to our public school teacher and student populations that I thought had been lacking in the common discourse. I wanted public schools to have more of a say.
Not too many of us make appreciable amounts of money. After outlays for publishing costs, publicity, contests, and mounting a website, many authors (myself included) are lucky to break even. And yet we write and keep writing. Which begs the question—why bother?
Of course, there are the success stories. After being rejected by traditional publishers, Andy Weir started posting chapters of his novel, The Martian, on his website, then offered copies of it on Amazon for ninety-nine cents apiece, and then eventually sold the printing rights to a major publishing house. The Martian is now a major motion picture. Fifty Shades of Gray, Eragon, and Still Alice were other major novels, and then films, that began as self-published works.
In a 2018 article, Publishers Weekly stated that the number of self-published authors topped one million in 2017; this is besides those authors who turn to indie houses or more traditional publishers, so it seems there are a lot of people out there who think they have something to say and who go to a lot of trouble to say it. Of course, this begs the even bigger question of why people write, or engage in any creative activity, to begin with. God knows that in America—with it horrible track record of supporting the arts—many musicians, dancers, and graphic artists find it nearly impossible to make a living following their dreams. But they still do it—after work, on weekends, and on vacations.
The authors I’ve spoken have said they want to share their own life experiences, to educate, to state a case, or to entertain. I think, and this is true at least in my case, that some authors—and artists—are chasing immortality. We want part of ourselves to live forever. And it is an odd sensation; looking at something you’ve written and realizing it will outlive you—maybe in a basement or an attic somewhere, but it will be there, waiting patiently to be opened and read, to be rediscovered.
I also find the writing process to be exhausting and invigorating—and, in the final analysis, enlightening. Weaving together the strands of character, plot, theme, and situation into a novel is challenging, but uncovering secrets about your own sensibilities and psyche during the writing process is surprising, sometimes shocking, but always exciting. Writing is discovery.
Annie Dillard, in The Writing Life, states, “the sensation of writing a book is the sensation of spinning, blinded by love and daring” and “….the sensation of writing is that of any unmerited grace. It is handed to you, but only if you look for it. You search, you break your heart, your back, your brain, and then—and only then—it is handed to you.”
It’s refreshing to me that our current culture of electronic self-absorption, disengagement, and artistic hegemony, that a subculture still strives to cultivate their unique voice, articulate their particular message, and then disseminate that message to the world through the written word. The process of writing—and reading—is a mutual construction of both intellect and imagination; what a rider shares is more than a story or a history or a confession. What they are sharing is, in the final analysis, an invitation to step into their lives, their psyches, their sensibilities, and to share these new worlds over black scratches on a white page.
These invitations go out into the world; some are answered, some not. But at least we know the message is out there. As Emily Dickinson wrote,
This is my letter to the world
That never wrote to me,–
The simple news that Nature told,
With tender majesty.
Her message is committed
To hands I cannot see;
For love of her, sweet countrymen,
Judge tenderly of me!
–Emily Dickinson
Indeed. Judge tenderly.