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As you know, I'm new to this book writing business. I assumed it would be hard work, and it is. Often frustrating, sometimes demoralizing, and, if you really let yourself think about it, downright overwhelming. I was prepared for that. Well, sort of anyway. Secretly I had hoped the words would just fly off my fingers like so much magic fairy dust. Oh well, what's one more pesky delusion laid to rest. It's ok. As my father used to say, "You don't get something for nothing." So work it is. I'm game.
But, what I didn't expect was that the mere mention of my literary efforts, would bring about such a consistent reaction - a pregnant pause, a politely frozen smile, and an abrupt change in topic. It's uncanny. Across a broad spectrum of friends acquaintances, including my nearest and dearest (in fact, particularly my nearest and dearest), the reaction is the same. It's like running into a stone wall.
It's not that I go around looking for ways to insert the topic of my Work in Progress into the general conversation, I learned early on not to commit that particular faux pas. My first clue was my sister mentioning a regular customer in her shop, who, she claims, always finds a way to casually mention her latest book project. "Why does she think I care if she's writing a book? She just wants to be sure we all know. So obnoxious. I just ignore her." Really? Okay, got it. Mums the word. No unsolicited blathering. But when someone I know reasonably well asks me, innocently enough, how I'm spending my time these days when I'm not painting dogs, or raking leaves, I answer truthfully. "Well, I'm trying to write a book, and it takes way more time than you'd think. In fact it's really hard and is driving me crazy." You'd think I'd uttered a rude noise, or a bad smell. Geez.
For months after telling my mother about my talks with an agent who wanted me to write a book, and that I'd decided to give it a try, she never mentioned it. Not once. My son, an avid student of literature, and excellent writer himself, instantly changed the subject when, looking for a little sympathy and/or encouragement, I told him last week that my writing has been in serious stuck mode for the last few months. My daughter makes a little humming noise at the mere mention, and, as far as I know, my other son has decided to pretend he's never heard anything about it at all. Deaf, dumb, and mute is his game. My friends acknowledge if necessary, but never inquire. Even Russ, when I ask him to read a section for a little objective input, kind of glazes over, then gives me one good reason after the other why he can't do it "just now". But, believe me, later never comes. I've stopped asking.
I'm beginning to understand the proliferation of writing groups. Maybe it's a little like joining a leper colony.
So here's a bit of advice, should you decide to tackle a writing project yourself, be prepared to go it alone. Your efforts will be solitary, and let me tell you, it's lonely out there in the land of word crafting. No one, I repeat no one, unless maybe you have a couple of fellow writers amongst your collection of friends, wants to hear about it, let alone read it. Never mind that you're killing yourself in your efforts to birth this thing, it is, apparently, very bad form to mention it. Something best kept behind closed doors. A personal matter that should be tended to in the privacy of one's own "boudoir". If you're lucky, you might get lip service at least, a bland, "Oh right, that's great." But don't expect anything remotely approaching sympathy for your struggles, let alone enthusiastic support, encouragement, or any interest beyond the purely conceptual.
And for God's sake, don't ask anyone to read anything.
So I've decided to lay low. Go to ground and plow though it alone. It's probably for the best. What if all my efforts never see the light of day? What if I die before I finish? What if it's truly terrible? The less talk the better. Then, miracle of miracle, if this long suffering Child of mine ever manages to stand on it's own feet, and draws breath in the form of words that take on a life of their own, won't it be a pleasant surprise?
For all of us.
other blog entries from Sarah Gayle Carter's journal »
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Sandra Thériault said to
Margaret Placentra Johnston
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