By today's special guest, Frank Dorchak.
Look, you’ve been writing your ass off. For years.
You’ve given up lots: sleep, time, movies, dates, workouts. Sometimes a relationship or two. Life. Gone to all the conferences, read all the How-Tos. Attended more ego-stripping, goal-stomping critique sessions than you care to relive. Maybe tried your hand at self-publishing. Blogging.
Then you get it, the question that surprisingly cuts to the oh-so-delicate-soft-pink-quick of your misery laden soul: why do you write? Sure, you answer it with typical public aplomb and cockiness with something like, because it’s in my blood, I’m not good at anything else, or I can’t stop the goddamned voices in my head.
But you know you, even if you don’t admit it to yourself.
Why do you write if you’re not getting published?
What is your major malfunction, soldier?
The sobering truth of it is this (let’s attack it head on, shall we?): Many of us will never get traditionally published. It’s just not gonna happen.
Ever.
Now, self-publishing opens up whole new vistas to those of us in this boat, but that doesn’t always help, either. It’s just not the same thing. And, sure...some of us are good writers...yet for one reason or another, will still never land that coveted publishing contract. You’ve heard it all, over and over--publishing just ain’t what it used to be--and does traditional publishing even matter anymore?
Yet...you can’t silence those damned voices. You continue to write with nothing to show for it.
I began writing when I was
six. I’ve been writing seriously (every day, up at 3-3:30 a.m. kinda thing) for over 25 years. Been to critique groups, did a Writer’s Digest correspondence course, attended conferences.
Presented at a conference. Read books on the writing process. Was a one-time editor for a small-small, start-up magazine. Self-published a novel, done booksignings. Belong to a couple of writer groups. Been interviewed on Internet and local radio. Write two blogs, regularly comment on other blog sites. Have an agent. Have helped other writers, been helped
by them. Have short stories published here and there, even one overseas. Am currently working on a series idea with my agent.
Why bother?
I’ve given up much over the past 25 years, on the bet-with-myself that it all meant something. That with all the hard work I put in, something would pop, and I could finally devote myself to one thing, and one thing only...but it hasn’t happened. I have yet to sell an agented manuscript, and that began to weigh on me. I began having trouble starting new manuscripts. So I began working on already created material. Those done, still no sales. Again tried new work, because that’s what we do. Ehhhh, still not flowing like it used to. And by “flowing,” I mean completing a 100K first draft in a month on two hours a day (plus “whatever” on the weekends) effort. It used to be easy for me, doing a first draft (not that I sold them, I’m just talking pure mechanics). My agent says it’s harder now because my writing has grown, contains more depth.
Perhaps.
A couple of years ago a weird thing--for me--happened. I hit a deep writing depression and I’m not one to
get depressed. It didn’t last long, but it sure hit like atonnabricks. I remember it was in a November, but don’t remember the year. I’d been banging my head against that brick publishing wall for most of my life. I knew my work was good, readable, likeable--maybe not Pulitzer material--but it was legit. I’d been told so by third parties including my agent (heck, I
had one, right?). I began to deeply question my efforts. WT
F, was my major malfunction? And
WhyTF was I doing all this? Killing myself with the crazy, driven hours I was putting in at the expense of other things (like sleep!), with nothing to show for it--at least what I was expecting to show for it?
But there was something else to the above incident: I’d felt...like a portion of me had
died.
Really up and
died.
It literally felt like a portion of me had passed on, and took a portion of my soul with it. I’m not kidding. That’s how it felt. I felt a seriously deep,
hollow feeling inside, like something had been ripped way. In my non-traditional belief systems, I believe in other, simultaneous lives, and this incident of mine actually felt like another version of me had literally passed away. Perhaps the “muse” parallel-writer of me? Maybe some other parallel-me with whom I was in deep, unconscious contact? I don’t know, but that was when I
really began to wonder if all my lofty literary efforts had been worth it and WhyT
F should I even continue, since in the near-second-half of my life, I had only a few short stories and one self-published novel.
The epiphany was devastating.
So, I blew it all off. Writing. For a spell. Quit my annual conference attendance. Let the issue stew (I love a good, meaty, stew). I knew it wasn’t the end of my life, but whatever had happened was surely a serious, huge
impact to my life.
WhyTF bother?
Here’s what I figured out when I came back to claim my stew:
Dead parallel-self or not,
I simply like writing.
Sure, I could do
any number of other things, I have all kinds of interests, latent abilities, but writing is fun and utilizes aspects of me other things simply cannot. End of story. Dénouement still to be written. I also realized that just cause one
is a writer, does not mean one will
get published. Perhaps my life had
other meaning, and being a writer was just part of the Grand Scheme. Not
The Grand Scheme. But, if it happens, it happens, and I’m not gonna [
figuratively] kill myself over trying to get there. Already “been there.”
So, I continue to write(and maybe my mechanics have become slightly less organic)...but I also continue to
engage life. Recently got back into
archery (not sure how long I’ll continue, but for now, it’s fun). Put more time into blogging (I’ve been tagged with the “F.P. Dorchak,
Blogger,” descriptor; weird). If there’s something else I want to do, I go do it, if I run into a dry spell, I roll with it...but if I have a project, I
write.
Make no mistake, I’m still a writer. And when I have a project, I’m in it 110% (thanks,
Lou Ferrigno!). And I still want that publishing contract. But at this point in my life, I’ve made peace with myself and have widened my perspective; accepted that maybe now I have to write with a thought-out synopsis, rather than totally by the seat of my pants. Though I understand what others say when they tritely toss out such comments as “
I have
to be a writer” or
“I’m not good at anything else,” I do not believe them for an instant. Sure, great sound bites and all, and easy to say once you’ve “hit it,” but damned untrue.
Humans are a highly adaptive organism, especially when forced into corners, usually (I’d wager a guess) of our own making. We’re all capable of a multitude of endeavors, whether or not we admit it to ourselves, and writing
is only one.
Writing is one part of our lives, and if we do it--or anything else--we should ask ourselves
why? Is it fun? Cathartic? Cheaper than drugs? Something to do while walking this Earth? But we also have to live
life. And there’s only one way out of that, and it flies by fast, so put some serious consideration into it. Not being a writer is
not going to kill anyone, no matter how much you think it might. It’s
not the end of your life.
It’s just simply not the case. And if you have to adapt to a new way of writing to write, do it. If it’s a little harder to write than when you were 25, so...just
do it. If you truly love it. It’s not a race. The only end of your life
is the end of your life. Between now and then there’s a lot to fill in. Everything between birth and death enriches those two milestones, and it’s up to each of us to find our own way.
Get involved. In something. Something else. Find other things to do. Take your mind off your writing for a spell, recharge...gain perspective...live. Expand your horizons. Not only will it do the aforementioned, but it’ll also fuel your writing. I love writing, but do have to step away from it every now and then.
Why bother?
Because it’s part of you.
Because you can.
Because you’re a writer.
Enjoy the journey.
You can learn more about Frank Dorchak and his writing on his website.
by Terry Wright
