success

The Work Itself

The chief reward of any artistic effort (and perhaps of every other effort as well) is the work itself. Success lies in the accomplishment, not in its fruits. If I write well, I’m a success. Wealth and fame might be fun (or they might not) but they’re largely beside the point.

—Lawrence Block, in Telling Lies for Fun & Profit

I am a big fan of Lawrence Block, of both his fiction and his books on writing.

When I first read the above quote, I was very enthusiastic about it. Because it told me that what I write has value in and of itself — if done well — regardless of the fruit that may or may not come of it.

Block’s statement, “If I write well, I’m a success,” resonated with me. Why? Because I wanted to believe it.

However, that statement was made by a man who is in fact a monetarily successful (millionaire), peer acclaimed, and much admired writer. According to his own statement, Mr. Block has always made his living by his typewriter or keyboard.

When I pondered that fact, the steam went out of my enthusiasm for his sentiments.

Years ago, when I was writing poetry and having lots of it published, I had a discussion with the late Jane Reichhold, who was a big name in English language Japanese-style poetry. The discussion had to do with this very subject of success.

Rainer Maria Rilke, in his first letter to the young poet, made the same argument that Mr. Block made. That success lies in writing well. I mentioned this to Jane, and then added, “But Rilke was a published and successful poet.” And her reply was: “There you have it.”

It is easy for the successful (in the eyes of the world and the bank) to tell the rest of us that success lies in doing something well. That “The chief reward of any artistic effort… is the work itself.” Written, I’m sure, while Mr. Block was cashing his royalty checks at the bank.

Now, I don’t wish to take anything away from Mr. Block, because he’s an author I very much like and admire, and who has given me many hours of pleasure and much valuable advice. But that is exactly my point: he has legions of followers and admirers. When the tree falls in his woods, there are many, very many, who hear it.

When the tree falls in my woods, who hears it? Considerably fewer than in Mr. Block’s woods — or Rilke’s, for that matter.

I’m not saying it’s all about the money, or the awards — because I don’t think it is. Those are merely the results of something else. Namely, recognition. Admiration.

When Aeschylus staged his plays, was he actually after the prize? Or was the prize merely the totem signifying the judges’ and audience’s recognition of the greatness of his writing? I’d hazard a guess it was the latter.

In The Birth of Tragedy, Nietzsche posits that the only thing that can save us, once we’ve peered into the abyss, is Art. Art being a symbol of that creative force that distinguishes gods from men. Gods create, and then look upon their creation and pronounce it good, or not (think the Flood).

As a writer, when I complete a work of fiction, I say the same thing: it is good (or not).

And while salvation, according to Nietzsche, lies in Art, I can’t help but wonder if he forgot that all gods want adulation — they demand worshippers.

If the god outside of me is dead, because I’ve become God — then don’t I, too, need worshippers as do all the gods? And if I don’t have them, don’t I become dead as well?

The Star Trek episode “Who Mourns for Adonais?” explored this theme, and the conclusion was that gods do indeed need worshippers in order to be gods.

Therefore, as a creative, is my work its own reward? Or does it need admirers? Do I need admirers? Does a tree falling in the woods make any sound if there’s no one there to hear it? What is the sound of one hand clapping?

I have no answer at this point. I want to believe Mr. Block’s statement and that of Rainer Maria Rilke before him. However, I can’t help but think that the writers of “Who Mourns for Adonais?” got it right.

Comments are always welcome. And until next time, happy reading!

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Today I thought I’d share a bit of encouragement with my fellow writers. I don’t normally give writing advice. Primarily because I’m not pulling in 5 figures a month, or have a mailing list of 60,000, or receive critical accolades from dozens of book critics, or been approached by a major publishing house offering me a 7 figure advance for my next book.

Whatever I might have to say on the business side of writing, or on the mechanics of writing, has been said by many others more qualified than I. And I can’t see the advantage in serving up twice fried hash.

However, what I can offer is encouragement. Because I do know what a little bit of encouragement can do to help keep the hands on the plow so the field can be planted.

My writing mentor is Anthony Trollope. He offers sage, timeless, and practical advice, along with inspiration for all author wannabes.

Are you struggling with whether or not you should even be a writer? Rainer Maria Rilke has the answer in his first letter to the young poet. The advice is profound.

Today, I want to talk about success. Particularly, what it means to be a successful writer.

At various times I’ve asked myself, Am I a successful writer? I mean, I’ve written 30 books and am lucky to make $300 in a year. Nobody who’s anybody has discovered me and promoted me and let me ride his or her coattails to fame and glory. And I thought getting recognition in the poetry world was tough!

So am I successful? A successful fiction author? After much thought, my answer is YES!

Of course that “yes” is according to my definition of success. And everyone’s definition is different. I’ll tell you a story to illustrate what I mean by success.

In 1989, when I was 36, I decided to write a novel. I’d never tried a novel and wasn’t sure I could write one. So I thought I’d give it a try and see if I had the makings of a novelist in me.

For over half a dozen years I’d been sitting on my sister and brother PI duo, Tina and Harry Wright, and decided they deserved to be in a novel.

Over the course of a year, I wrote my novel. When completed, I garnered a couple rejections. Then I took a long, hard look at what I’d written. Well, I had written a novel. So now I knew I could do it. I could write novels. I also realized my first attempt wasn’t overly good.

I took stock of my life at that point in time. I was working in an emotionally draining job. I had a family. And I realized I didn’t have the emotional energy to rework the novel, or to spend another year writing a new one.

With a sad heart, I put the typescript away.

But I had to write!

In those days, there was no indie author movement. Traditional publishing was king. An iron-fisted despot. Self-publishing was for losers and the vain. Fiction markets were few and far between, those that paid money that is. There were plenty of small zines that would take your stories. Zines with a circ of 50 or 100 readers at best. Payment was usually 2 contributor copies.

I knew writers who submitted to such zines in the hope of earning publishing credits and a chance at the big time. None of them made it.

After some soul searching, I decided to switch from fiction to poetry. The most important thing in making this change was giving up my dream of making a living from writing.

Because there is no money in poetry.

No money. Period. Nada. Zip. Even those who are lucky enough to have a publisher publish a book of their poetry don’t make money on it. Poets themselves have told me this.

In the world of poetry, there is no money and no hope of money. The last poet who supported himself with his poetry, near as I can tell, was Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. So if there is no money to measure success, success has to be measured by some other marker than cash.

In fiction, the marker is obviously money. Quitting the day job. Living from one’s pen. Poets, however, must come up with some other currency to measure success.

Poets, pure and simple, write for the love of writing. Secondarily they seek prestige and name recognition. Prestige from other poets and the few readers of poetry that are out there. And the thought that when their name is mentioned someone will recognize it. That’s it.

Poets never get rid of the day job, until they retire.

And I am proud to say that I made something of a splash in the micro-poetry world that I chose to write in. I won a few contests, got accepted in some “name” zines, and garnered a bit of name recognition. I was a “success” in the poetry world.

The other day, on Twitter, B. Bernard Ferguson tweeted the quote below. There was no attribution, so I don’t know if the quote is original with him, or copied from another source. Whatever its origin — it’s a beauty.

To all who ever doubted they would become a successful writer…the moment your written words resonate with anyone, including yourself, YOU became a “successful” writer.

I learned the message of that quote writing poetry. Touching another person’s heart and soul — even if only your own — was payment enough.

One man I know, older than I, read one of my poems and told me it helped him understand and come to terms with the dysfunctional relationship he’d had with his father. And I’ve been fortunate to have others express similar comments. That, my friends, is payment enough.

Now I write fiction which has always been my dream, my first love. I don’t make much money. If folks read those free books I gave away, I might have a thousand people who have read my books. But what counts is that I’m having a blast. I’m doing what a mere 25 years ago was impossible — because the technology didn’t exist. I’m writing and publishing books. A dream come true.

And today the self-published stigma, while still present in some circles, is fast disappearing. There are truly excellent self-published books out there. Eat your heart out Big 5!

And along the way of my fiction journey, I’ve touched people. Not a lot, but more than I could have 25 years ago. These folk love Justinia Wright, or Pierce Mostyn, or Bill Arthur. I’ve given them enjoyment and at times something to think about. I’ve helped them enter a different world than the one they live in day to day. I’ve helped them escape boredom, the pressure of their jobs, and even pain. That’s something to think about.

If I never make 4 or 5 figures a month, I will at least leave this life knowing that what I wrote touched other human beings.

I’ve been successful. And that is payment enough.

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Talent’s Not Enough

Nothing in this world can take the place of persistence. Talent will not; nothing is more common than unsuccessful men with talent. … Persistence and determination alone are omnipotent.

—Attributed to Calvin Coolidge

Last week I wrote about creativity and the joy of being a creator.

This week I want to riff on that idea with a dose of reality. Talent is not enough to succeed.

In my years of actively writing for publication, I’ve seen many poets and fiction writers — far more talented than myself — give up.

They may have given up because of too many rejection slips. Or thrown in the towel because of a bad review or two or three. Or they may have called it quits due to lack of sales. Or they were not up to the hard work of promoting their writing. They had the misconception that just because they had talent they would not have to work. Success would instantly be theirs. As Nick Stephenson has noted, if no one knows you exist — all you are doing is writing into a black hole. And I’ll add: even if you have talent. Success comes from work. You have to work hard to get people to find you and notice you.

I could easily name a half dozen authors or more whose books are on my iPad who have disappeared. Apparently they’ve given up. They lacked persistence and determination.

It’s common knowledge that most new business ventures fail within the first three years. And writing is no different. It is a business venture, whether the author is traditionally published or self-published.

My late friend, John J. (“Jack”) Koblas, whose books were published by a regional publisher in Minnesota, used to drive his van — loaded with cases of his books — all over the country. He gave talks and went to conferences, and sold autographed copies of his books. That was hard, hard work. But he was able to earn a living from his writing by doing so. He found many, many readers because he did the work of finding them.

Jack was persistent and determined. When I first met him in the early 1970s, he was gathering rejection slips for his fiction. He eventually gave up trying to sell his fiction, and instead wrote biographies of famous writers who lived in Minnesota. He found publishers for those books. Then he wrote a fabulous book on Jesse James’s raid on the Northfield, Minnesota bank — and he found his audience in history writing.

Then, because his non-fiction was selling, his publisher brought out his fiction and poetry.

Work. Hard, hard work. But it eventually paid off.

We indie writers are in the same boat. The easy money, the easy route to readers, is gone. It ended in 2014. Now, due to tremendous competition, we have to work. We have to get creative, in order to find our readers.

Persistence and determination. That’s what we need. That has to become our mantra. Because talent is not enough. Many talented writers were and are business failures. They gave up and disappeared. Their dreams crashed and burned — because they gave up. They didn’t have the determination to push on. They didn’t persist. They didn’t get creative and find their unique path to success.

And I find that to be very sobering and very sad. I urge you, my fellow writers, not to be one of them.

The joy they could have brought to scores, hundreds, maybe thousands of readers — is gone, forever.

Talent isn’t enough to succeed. And that is repeatedly demonstrated by the mediocre writer, who is persistent and determined, and thereby succeeds. That, too, is very sobering and very sad.

Persist! Be creative! And you can hold your dream in your hands.

Comments are always welcome. And until next time, happy persisting!

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