Fitzgerald, Faulkner, and Hemingway. Whatever happened to writers of
that caliber? I guess nobody drinks that much anymore. That’s not what this
essay’s about, though. What do they have in common? They all knew. Based on
correspondence they had with loved ones, editors, and friends, they had the
power of premonition with their novels. All three of them came to a point in
their professional careers where they said, “This may not be my best book, it’s
definitely not my smartest, and I’ve written more personal pieces, but this is
the one. This is the one I’ll be remembered by.” I find that fascinating.
It’s not a rare phenomenon with alcoholic writers of the early 20th century,
either. It’s happened with others. Anthony Burgess, Brett Easton Ellis, Milan
Kundera...I won’t bore you with obscure Dennis Miller-esque trifectas, but
it’s true. They had the literary clock, which comforts me.
How in the hell could they know, though? And what does it feel like? To
sit back after completing a book, take a breath before it’s released into the
wild, and realize that this is the one that matters? To realize from the
depths of your being that nothing you wrote before or long after will make as
much as an impact as the shining creation you finished? Maybe a mixture of
sadness and joy. Depression over the fact that nothing you did after that would
measure up to the masterpiece, and the joy from knowing that you accomplished
what you set out to do as a writer. You struck a chord with nearly every human
soul who pored over the printed page. Yours wasn’t the book some secretary
read on a tropical vacation because she wanted to turn her brain off and try not
to think about what she had to go back home to. The guy on the bus greedily
zipped from page to page, eating up every word and every turn of phrase
because he didn’t want to miss a beat. Class-rooms hundreds of years from now would
read something that you wrote during the worst hangover of your life at the
worst time in your life and it still turned out okay. Goddamn.
Some women say they have a biological clock. They have to ensnare,
attract, mate, and nest with a man. And I mean that in the most pro-feminist
sense. A lot of men my age have a career clock. They want to have the CEO
position by thirty, retire by forty, and start a trust fund for their ungrateful and
slightly stupid yet pampered children by fifty. I don’t worry about any of
that crap. It’s the book clock that kills me. Ticking away in the middle of
the night, waking me back up out of the blocks, moving me from sponging up pop
culture to translate that into an article or a review or a funny limerick. It
won’t stop. I forget what started it, and I can’t find anything to stop it,
even if I wanted to. Tick, Tock. Tick bloody tock.
This book is almost done. Tick. This is what’s bothering me. Tock.
And here we are in another self indulgent piece pondering the nature of this
fantastical hobby. It’s not magical, it’s not as romantic as anyone thinks it
is. I don’t sit at a desk on long Saturday mornings and dream out of a window.
I don’t take long walks on the beach and write on papyrus during sunset with
a rare quill and enchanted ink. Most writers who freelance are lucky if they
pull in thirty thousand a year by the time they’re thirty five. Most writers
who hold office positions as journalists have shit jobs with shit pay and
shittier perks. It’s almost worse than broadcast radio. There’s the rare
Stephen King or Robert James Waller (who made a mint with "Bridges Of Madison County "and, thankfully, went away and never wrote a popular book again), but the
majority of us eke by with nothing. They say that writers get boring once they
become famous. I wish I could give you an answer on that one. I can tell you
that writers who are broke write about whatever the hell they want. So maybe
you give up your individual artistic freedom when the checks start rolling in.
The market just isn’t what it used to be. Most people will wait for a
movie to be made before they go and buy the book. If it isn’t a self-help novel
or a steamy romance with Fabio’s rippling abs on the cover, housewives (the
majority of book buyers out there) won’t support it. And if it’s not gloom,
doom, and anti-conservative anarchy served up Stephen King-style, confused and
testosterone-amped teenage boys won’t buy it. But I’m not making excuses,
here. I’m good at one thing: Essays. That’s it. Clever people often ask me,
“Tom, you should write a Real Book.” or “Tom, what you need to do is write a
Movie or a Popular Cartoon!” and to this I reply, “Actually, my next project
is to write about the asshole who gave me foolish suggestions.” I’m not that
vicious anymore. I tell them that I don’t have the scope. I can go out on a
limb and write a little creative project or when I’m trying to capture the
heart or get into the skirt of a love interest I can whip up a decent poem, but
that’s it. It could change, but I doubt it. Maybe some day. The essays are
the thing, though. And it’s not a Fortune 500 business, that. The last time
essays were popular people were carving Victorian Furniture and Henry David
Thoreau was wandering around aimlessly in the woods rhapsodizing about log
cabins and back home serenity. I picked the wrong century to make money on this
sort of thing.
Essays are a dirty word. Dave Barry writes them minus the message and
plus the fluffy, harmless wackiness. At a weighty 500-600 words so that the
newspapers can cram it into the lifestyles section between a hard hitting
journalistic expose on growing cherry tomatoes in the spring and the latest Dear Abby
letter about crotch rot. Am I jealous? Hell yes. He’s got the pole position
in the rankings and it doesn’t look like there’s room for number two. Andy
Rooney, one of my heroes, was in the right place at the right time (note that I
had two opportunities to make a cute pun by substituting the word ‘right’
with ‘write’). He reported for World War 2, ambled onto 60 Minutes, and spent
forty years complaining about joggers, weight gain, and fixing the shingles on
his house. I love that man. He could complain about anything. And what’s
the point of writing an essay if you don’t have something to piss and moan
over? So I bide my time and try to mentally will a brain aneurysm for Dave Barry
through transcendental meditation. I’ve still got a little time left.
Most writers worth anything make their debut by the time they’re thirty.
If you can’t come to the table with some A-material by then, you might as
well come up with a new self help concept or dress up an old one. Most writers
who have any sort of staying power hit their stride or hit the public
consciousness with a vengeance by the time they’re thirty. Tick..................Tock.
I’ve got two years left. It’s like a death sentence. It’s time to get
moving.
Four years ago the goal seemed easily achievable. I was the toast of the
town and whatever social circle I couldn’t schmooze my way through, I bought
my way into. To my complete shock and disbelief, Buffalo NY isn’t what you’d
call a launching pad for historical greatness. So it was back to the drawing
board. I’ve done a lot of freelancing and spent a lot of time wiping egg off
of my face. I’m not bitter, I’m not upset, and I’m not scorned. I’m
determined. Plan two. I threw up a white flag and started reaching out to some
agents. And some of them want to see the completed book. For all I know, one
of those wonderful princes or princesses of commerce could be reading this
right now. To that I say: I love you, and let’s do business. My ass hurts after
that line. Joking.
So it’s a mad rush to whip up twenty more quality pages and stir up an
‘it’ factor before they move on to the next shining star of essays. I’m sure
they have scouts for that. I’ve done my homework. No more self publishing.
I’m not going anywhere near subsidy publishing. Print on demand is nice, but
only if you want enough royalties to buy a can of paint thinner to drink every
six months. This is the last tunnel in the rat-maze. It’s the correct one,
and it took me twenty eight goddamned years to find it. Tick Tock.
Minus twenty pages. Can I make some money and a dent on the general
public? I’d settle for a mild rash on the collective unconsciousness. Two years
to go. Less than two years. It’ll be down to a year next October. Time to
wise up, dry up and fly right. I’ve got a solid book to let loose. It’s not
‘the one’, but it’s warm. I hear that they love individuality and an
informed opinion out there on the bookshelves. Let’s hope it’s enough. I’m
shooting for a six figure advance when they option the film rights.
forwarding my messages to Walden pond,
