[Final edit at 6:08pm, accompanied by a tall
glass of Jack and water over ice…]
I’m tired of being
optimistic. Tired of smiling and pretending I have any influence, at all, on
what happens next in my world and that everything’s going to be okay. Because I
don’t, and it’s not. Our lobbyist-run government is corrupt, our politically
divided country is full of sheeple,
and our flat, over-sized televisions spew a thousand channels of shamelessly over-commercialed garbage. Cities,
towns, and entire islands all over the globe are disappearing under rising
tides. Economies (including ours) are crumbling. Human trafficking, slavery,
organized crime, poverty, child abuse, torture, terrorism, and war exist – will continue to exist – everywhere.
With advances in
technology, and one-click access to more information than probably every other
generation before us, combined, you’d think we’d get better at solving the
world’s problems. Instead, phones, tablets, pads, and the mindless games and
activities over which we obsess have taught us to look down instead of out and
inward. We see it as multi-tasking. We think we know ourselves – and each other
– but we don’t. We pop in headphones, link to WiFi, and think we’re connected,
but we’re not. Social networking is, in fact, making us anti-social. We tweet
our “Check in” at Applebee’s or click “Like” on a friend’s photo of a kitten pushing a smaller kitten in a tiny, red shopping cart and call it “communicating,” while eating lunch surrounded
by people doing the same thing. Our “Friends” lists are growing, but our
vocabularies are shrinking, and our attention spans are getting shorter. I’d
say that’s far from advancement.
As a novelist, I
find it all discouraging. What, exactly, does one write about when the world
clearly doesn’t give a damn about anything worth writing about? And, given the
dwindling number of people willing/able to sit down and read for more than
three minutes at a time, where do I find the motivation to produce material for
an audience that doesn’t exist? I have enough trouble drumming up readers for a
blog post that took a day and a half to write (this one, for example), what’s
the point in spending two to five years crafting a story only three hundred
people will read, half will pay for, and fewer will review and/or recommend to
friends? (Not that I’m ungrateful for those of you who DO buy, read, comment,
share, and keep coming back; if YOU didn’t exist, I wouldn’t be here bitching
there aren’t more of you.)
The only reason
I’ve been able to publish two novels, two short stories, and six magazine
articles – and (poorly) maintain a blog – is because my husband makes it
possible. I’d hoped to ultimately repay his support and sacrifice by justifying
my existence (sporting a substantial ROI, if you will). After ten years, I’m
not only NOT making a living, I can’t even cover my vices. Though I’ve
certainly reveled in the hundreds of copies sold and the tens of dollars I’ve pocketed
in royalties, I’ve arrived at a crossroads.
Ten years, people
– TEN! That’s a fucking DECADE of fighting for time to sit on my ass, stare at
blank pages, and make up stories, while Scott schleps off to work every day, so the bills
can get paid. I’ve persisted through the death of my mother, accidental and
suicidal deaths of dear friends, at least half a dozen hurricanes, countless
arguments and/or serious misunderstandings with my children and siblings, two
near divorces, and a lightning strike to the house that wiped out cable,
Internet, and half the sprinkler system. I nearly died in ’08 from poor
nutrition and exhaustion! And yet, I have little more to show for all that
persistence than a small shelf of books and magazines that collect more dust
than royalties, a blog maybe twelve (wonderful) people read, and a husband who’s overwhelmed and out of patience. I don’t
want to think about what the next ten years might bring.
Why am I doing
this?!
My next project is
supposed to be an historical novel that incorporates the origins of
firefighting with the history of the Knights of Malta, the eternal clash
between Christians and Muslims, and the importance of family and community. The
themes are dear to me, and the topics seem relevant and interesting. But, every
time I sit down to write, I think, “Aside from the luxury of being at home and
available for family, friends, and the occasional crisis (aka, kick in the
nuts), what GOOD am I doing?” I’m not making money, creating jobs, or changing
the world. I’m not even changing attitudes about anything important, like
foreign relations, genetically modified food, the destructive natures of religion
and monogamy, benefits of recreational marijuana, pitfalls of vanity and greed,
and the very basic need for real, human contact. How do I justify – every day –
the hours (days, years) it takes to write a book about people who don’t exist,
doing things that didn’t happen, when my husband resents me and the world is
going to hell? Surely, you can grasp my dilemma.
If you don’t hear
from me for a while, blame Willie and Lukas Nelson. Might as well throw Kid
Rock in there, too, since we’re throwing blame around (on everyone but ME, of
course, because I’m brilliant, faultless, and totally free of personal
responsibility – try saying THAT to yourself in a mirror without laughing…or
crying). Through their actions, as well as their music, they’ve inspired me to do
well AND do good. I want to make a difference. I want to change the world. MY world, anyway. A successful novelist
might be able to pull that off, but the simple fact is: I’m a housewife in
Jupiter. Yes, I still believe in my work and my ability, and I couldn’t stop
writing if I tried. But, until I reach more people and sell more books than
Paris Hilton and her dog, I’ll go on being nobody in the world of readers and writers. And no one
will listen. Rather than waste more energy being optimistic and plod forward as
merely an aspiring novelist, I think it’s time for a change of focus and
scenery. I’ve heard I throw a good party. Maybe I’ll start there…
Until next time.
Peace. Love.
Balance.
~ Dawn
