On becoming a writer…

I am not new to the writing world, if you define that world as including those who never leave home without a notebook and pen, those who view life as a conglomeration of events that are worthy of ink, or those who dream so vividly it’s difficult to discern a dream-state from reality. However, if the writing world includes those whose work has been published, I’m am not of that realm.

My words are still under construction. I have stories to tell, and tell them I do – but does that count? The philosophical side of me asks, if I write a story and know one reads it…did I write it? My husband reads all my work, I share most of it with my children, and my writing partner suffers through rewrite after rewrite, but beyond that, I’m unknown.

And for now, I’m fine with being unknown. From what I’ve seen of the ‘known’ writers, the expectations are relentlessly bitter. Publish or perish. So my question to ponder today is: Is the purpose of writing to write for the pure art of the act, or is it an act born from the selfish desire to have a byline or a spine on the shelf?

If you are a writer and have read anything on the craft, attended even the smallest of writing conferences, you’ve heard the idea that new writers should focus on the art of writing and publication will follow. That comes from the pens of several (apparently) respectable authors, so I figure, why not?

For the duration of the summer, my focus on writing will not be sending out countless short stories to magazines or anthologies, but on refining my craft. I have found a list of the 100 best novels…ever. I’ve read many in my days as a student. The list can be found at www.randomhouse.com/modernlibrary/100bestnovels.html . The website has three different lists: The Board’s List, The Reader’s List, and Radcliffe’s List. Essentially, the books are the same but presented in a different order. I believe the best course of action is to read the top books from each list. I’m going on the assumption that each list has its own merit – that Random House would not publish these lists if not for the quality of the literature mentioned. The first book on each list is:
Radcliffe’s List – THE GREAT GATSBY by F. Scott Fitzgerald (which creates a swelling in my chest, the same anxieties I experienced in high school when I read this for the first time).
Reader’s List – ATLAS SHRUGGED by Ayn Rand (I read this years ago and loved it. But with a memory like mine, I remember nothing of it. Time to venture into those pages again.)
Board’s List – ULYSSES by James Joyce. (Never read this. Looking forward to it.)

This adventure actually began with the timely find of John Gardner’s book ON BECOMING A NOVELIST at a used book store. I love buying used books. The idea that someone else has walked along the pages before you, enjoyed those exact inked words and passed it on for another to enjoy makes the books feel like an inheritance instead of simply a good deal. (There is also the possibility that the book was sold to a used book store because the previous owner never read it. I’m not worried about that past for a book – I’ll never know the difference and it’s still a good deal.)

One of the books he suggested was Fiction 100 by James H. Pinkering, which oddly enough, was sitting on my book shelf. Not sure where it came from, probably a used book sale, but it’s here and I’m going to use it. I started reading it yesterday, not at the beginning, but page 57 with Sonny’s Blues by James Baldwin. He shares with the reader emotions and events in such a way that I didn’t realize at first that I was being fed information. Instead of writing: “Leaving that neighborhood was difficult. It left tiny bits of me behind,” or some equally horrible sentence, Baldwin wrote: “Those who got out always left something of themselves behind, as some animals amputate a leg and leave it in the trap.” Pow! Such a vivid image! The idea that leaving home required chewing through skin and muscle and bone and nerve…so much better! I spent the rest of the reading time enjoying the story – as much as a sad story like this can be enjoyed – looking for more places he had used this technique.

Back to my question… Is the purpose of writing to write for the pure art of the act, or is it an act born from the selfish desire to have a byline or a spine on the shelf?

To answer – after reading Baldwin’s short story, after suffering countless rejections, and knowing that my day isn’t complete unless I write – I know the purpose of writing is to capture life with words, to arrange our language on the page so that the image in my mind is transferred to the reader’s mind. I know there is no formula to write, no clearly defined path to take in constructing a story, that writing is a trail-blazing adventure in which I travel into the recesses of my imagination and bring others along through my words alone. Therefore, no. I do not write in order to see my book’s spine on a shelf. I write because I can’t imagine doing anything else. Writing ties me to the world the way a string holds a balloon from sailing away – cut that string and I’m lost forever. I write because I must. Like breathing, I would suffocate without it.