Kurt Brindley is nice enough to read and review my novel, so I contributed a guest post to his blog.
It is my pleasure, privilege, and honor to present to you a whirlwind of wisdom and intrigue from the author of HAWSER, our IABS&R Volume 3 selection.
Or So You Say
by J Hardy Carroll
Tell me the truth, now.
You always dreamed of being a writer. Doesn’t matter whether your dream took the shape of Erica Jong in a penthouse sipping Moet while talking into a Dictaphone or Hemingway slouched over a café crème wearing down a stub pencil in a composition notebook.
Your dream isn’t of fame, of wealth or even of the admiration of your fellows.
No. Your dream is much simpler.
Your dream is to be paid for your unadulterated idea.
It is a strong dream, a storyteller’s dream, but it is a dream fraught with questions.
Who are you to tell a story?
What makes your idea worth anyone’s time?
How in God’s name can you call yourself a writer?
You know the facts. Writing badly is easy. It just comes. You’re so pleased with it. You are proud. Until you forget.
You forget that writing well is ridiculously hard, a series of tasks, many unrewarding and some downright unpleasant. Self-delusion lurks in every dark corner and all your worst tendencies get laid out naked on the slab in public view. Your clever clichés and trite situations and penchant to lecture form a kind of cesspool though which you wade, dragging for a story as though it was the body of a murder victim.
My, how you do go on.
But tell me the truth.
Secretly, you think you’re great. Admit it.
Well, maybe not great. Not yet. But good. Good enough to get published, anyway. Except for the fact that there aren’t any publishers these days willing to take a chance on somebody without an MFA from Iowa or Emerson or Columbia.
Or maybe it’s this: maybe you’re not so great. Maybe you are only great at lying to yourself.
So start another story. Maybe this time it will turn out better. Maybe this one will actually be something you can open in six months and read with a degree of pleasure or even pride.
Did you read that piece on Andre Dubus, about how he would take a year to write a single story, how he would trim 150 pages down to twenty, how one perfect sentence followed another?
Did you read about how Jack London pawned his bicycle for postage to send out his manuscripts only to have them come back months later with form rejection notices tucked inside the self-addressed stamped envelope?
Did you read about Annie Proulx writing cookbooks?
By the way, who in hell do you think you are?
You didn’t finish college. Your father was a professor who taught Chaucer and Beowulf and who never wrote anything down. You dedicated your first novel to him but he died before he got a chance to read it. In his life he finished only one short story, the one about his father called My Father’s Dreams that you read when you were in high school, the one that made you cry and wonder why your dad didn’t write more.
Or at all. Your dad could talk an acorn into an oak, but he never could finish anything. How many stories did he start and never finish?
Is this about him? Is that all there is to the dream? No? What, then?
Don’t give me that shit about how when you first read Faulkner, hacked your way though the twisted vines of his prose only to find yourself lost in a thicket, befuddled and a little angry, how you went back and started again, trying hard to not be bored, trying hard to be smart, trying not to give up and re-read that Trevanian book instead.
Don’t give me that shit about Faulkner being hard because there was that afternoon when you realized what the story was about, when you saw that the pattern of random rocks in the road was a secret code of musical notes scoring a symphony that only grew in richness over the span of years.
Don’t give me that shit about Vonnegut, either, about how you read Breakfast of Champions at the age of sixteen when you were so depressed you wanted to kill yourself. Don’t tell me that reading that book made you decide to go to the hospital instead of jumping off the parking structure of the Pioneer Hotel. The part where you were going to be polite and wrap yourself in garbage bags so as not to make too much of a mess is pretty funny—irony—but I still don’t want to hear it.
You know what? I don’t care. I don’t care what makes you want to do this thing. I am not interested in your ambitions to have people read your work. People read your work all the time, read it and like it.
I’m not interested in your quest for a perfection you will never achieve, not interested in your heroes or even your opinions on truth, war, love, loss, fatherhood, death or any of it.
So what, then? What interests me?
I’ll tell you.
It’s the act of writing. Writing every day, writing something. Think of the hummingbird. Think of the shark. Think of the way your heart is beating away in your chest at this very moment. No rest. Ever onward.
Don’t give me your reasons. Don’t give me anything. Don’t think about it. Don’t think at all.
Empty yourself out and get to it. You can think about it later.
And by God, you probably will, too.