Essentially, there are two kinds of writing one can do in this lifetime: writing that’s destined for publication, and writing that may wind up in limbo. These days, the former is becoming less and less probable for most of us. It is harder than ever to get published in magazines, because there are so few of them left, and it’s harder than ever to get a book deal, because publishers don’t want to touch anything that doesn’t have some sort of commercial appeal. And thus if you have an idea, you can write it, but there’s no guarantee anyone will ever read the damn thing.

This is not an earthshaking revelation, I know. But it does make me get up some days and wonder what the hell I’m doing, what the point of the hours spent researching and learning and drafting something really is. Envy is inevitable when you’re writing into a publication void: if you’re like me, you can see books by people you know prominently displayed in local bookstores, people you like and admire, who are good writers who work hard and change the world, and still experience the kind of teeth-gnashing jealousy you thought you last felt in junior high. And the jealously is about the same bottom line: why can’t I come up with a commercial idea like that? The junior high version: why am I not popular? Rejection these days is not about the quality of the work, but about the saleability of the concept. Publishers say things like “there’s no sales angle” instead of commenting that your writing just sucks. It’s not about the writing: it’s about how to pitch it. And that’s bleak, bleak, bleak.

I know, many of you are thinking, shit, lady, just put the damn thing on Lulu and self publish. Which is not a concept I reject; in fact, given the fact that commercial publishing seems to be flailing as hard as some of those oil-slicked Gulf dolphins, self publishing may be the only way for most of us. But you still have to pimp it harder than a motherfucker if you go that route, and the idea of that is so objectionable to me for so many reasons that I can’t handle it. Seriously, I have to deep breathe into a paper bag to read from my work to twenty drunk people in a bar; do you know how hard it is to beg people to buy my books? If I had the money, I would hire a publicist, but I don’t have the money. Are there grants for that?

This is the thing: for decades (I’m that old now) I wrote reams and reams never knowing if they were going to be published, and that was fine. And then there was a book, and another one, and I began to think, oh, maybe I am good enough. But then it comes down to numbers. And then the message is no, you are not good enough. And that’s a lot of pressure to contend with, the numbers pressure, the pressure to have a marketable idea. It’s rather antithetical to the creative process, isn’t it? Rather than thinking, this is a great idea, one has to think, this is a book a lot of people will pay for.  And there isn’t any such thing as a middle ground between those two, most of the time.

It’s a gray day in Oakland; please excuse the self pity. I will always write; I don’t have a choice about that. I’m just no longer sure whether anyone will get to read any of it beyond this blog. And that’s kind of scary.

This entry was posted on Friday, June 18th, 2010 at 7:24 am and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.