22
05
Career fi ction writers must be
aware of what the successful
writing life is like.
A friend of mine, Terri Blackstock, a highly successful
novelist, wrote the following about the writing life. It’s
worth your attention, especially if you think getting pub-
lished means the end of all your worries. It is produced
here with her permission:
I think one of the things unique to the writer’s life is
that we do seem to be on a roller coaster. I fi nish a book!
Hoorah! Everything’s wonderful.
Then I send it off and wait. Time passes. My spirits
plunge. It’s the worst thing I’ve ever written. Why, oh why
did I send it when I did? I start scouring the newspaper
for real jobs.
Then I get the call. They love it and are really going
to publish it. Yes! Life is grand! Woo-hoo!
Then I get the revision letter. It’s horrible. They want
me to rewrite the whole book, change the title, and think
about a pseudonym. They hate the plot and think the
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wrong characters died. Oh, and they want me to add a
dog and a baby. I plunge again as I try to pick up the pieces
that are salvageable.
But then it occurs to me how it can be done, and
hey, that dog really does add to the suspense, and the
baby will be worth a few boxes of tissue, so yahoo, I’m
up again as I send it off. It’s the best thing I’ve ever done,
a guaranteed blockbuster.
But then I can’t pay my light bill, and the checks are
starting to bounce, and that check from the publisher
never comes. So I plunge again. Finally, I get paid, and
dance around singing “I’m in the money!” Then I write
a check to Uncle Sam, pay that late light bill, pay my life
insurance premium that I’m behind on, and wonder how
I’m going to make it on what’s left over until the next
check. Spirits take another dive.
Book comes out, good review, I dance again and sing
for joy and write all my friends and make copies for my
mother. Then I go on Amazon and read one lousy review
from some hostile reader, and I notice that I’m ranked
6,000,342,786, and I go around the house looking for
my gun or the Valium I threw away when I was dancing
for joy that last time.
But before I pull the trigger or toss those pills down
my throat, I start thinking, “What if some guy had a gun
and a bottle of anxiety pills and before he offs himself a
shot rings out and he hits the fl oor and suddenly wants
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to live, only others want him dead,” and woo-hoo, my
spirits soar and my eyes glaze over, and like a homing
robot (if there’s such a thing), I stumble back to that
keyboard and start typing.
And it all starts over again.
That’s the writing life.
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