Writer's Ego Or Four Letter Word?

I’ve written two books. Neither published. The first one took me six laborious years, the other an easy eight months. People ask me how I did it – actually sat down and wrote some 250,000ish words. I’m pretty sure they’re not really interested in the answer, much less interested in the idea that I even wrote a book. But you know, people always like to pretend they care. And so, I’m going to tell you.

The first book, well, I strove for greatness – like most of us probably. An epic piece of historical/literary/Pulitzer prize-winning prose like the world’s never seen. Of course that’s not at all how the novel ended up, and acknowledging that was about as difficult as purposely sitting bare-assed on a barrel cactus (not that I’ve ever done that intentionally).

I made a pretty hefty intellectual investment, and that’s part of the reason my first try involved six precious years. Like a lot of writers with good intentions, I took myself way, way too seriously. I mean my first novel - an ‘edgy’ sort of Ellis-y wannabe - isn’t bad (yikes, I get uncomfortably prickly just writing “an ‘edgy’ sort of Ellis-y wannabe"). But a novel of epic proportions? Not really.

I’ve just now started to query agents and I’ve had some very positive feedback from rather good/well known agencies; queries that lead to requests for the full manuscript. And though ultimately, none of them decided to take my book on, those agents did send along some very helpful feedback, and any positive, much less personal commentary, is good news.

(Sidebar: The whole finding an agent process is simultaneously exciting, nerve-racking and depressing. And a person definitely need thick skin. But unless you’re connected, or lucky enough to know someone, it’s the only way I know to respectably publish my work.)

In the meantime, while I look for an agent, I’m trying to finish up editing my second book. The one that took me eight months to finish. Eight months vs. six years.

There’s a mountain of difference between the two. At least, the second was easier to write once I faced my 'issues.'

First, after finishing the first book and hating even the thought of it, I finally dealt with the fact that while I’m a decent writer by anyone’s standards, I’m no Phillip Roth or Albert Camus. I’m probably never going to write anything Pulitzer worthy and I had to accept the idea on my own terms.

Hard as it was at first, I finally, sort of, owned up to my insecurities, as well as to the fact that I am my own worst enemy. And also kind of a closet elitist. An insecure elitist - a writer’s MO don't you think (well at least I’m in good company)?

I like being good at everything I do, and not being the best is definitely discouraging. But I have now embraced the idea that ‘best’ is also sort of a subjective word. Great writers run the gambit of genre and style, and it’s really the reader who ultimately determines it all anyway, no matter what the New York Times prints. Plus, insecure people rarely assign any realistic worth to anything. In other words, I’m not a good judge when it comes to my own work.

But I did finally realize I CAN write less philosophical, less meaningful stories that thrill and delight, and still be good. That my ego isn’t my master. In fact, that was it for me – I had to remove my ego from the picture completely.

Then, and this runs alongside my other epiphany, I made myself believe that it’s stupid to measure my worth as a writer against authors like Proust (Okay, I’ve never read Proust . . . but still). There are reasons people like Kafka and Salinger live in infamy – and those kinds of writers are far and few between. Nice as it’d be to be one, not being one doesn’t reduce my writing.

I allowed myself to give into the idea that I not only love to write, but that I’m addicted. Which means I really have no choice in the matter. Writing is a lovely addiction; not one thing compares, and believe me, I’ve done a hell of a lot of stupid to exciting things. In fact writing satisfies sort of the same way great sex and decadent food makes a person feel blissfully clever and lazy. I’m lost to the act of writing completely.

And after a little soul searching (err, a lot), I convinced myself it was A) okay write something more ‘mainstream,’ B) okay to sit down and write from page A to B without backtracking and editing, C) okay to write poorly then clean it up later after I finished writing a frame of a story, and D) I accepted the fact that my first draft doesn’t have to be instantly illuminating. All things that held me back with first novel. And once I convinced myself that my first draft didn’t have to be ‘IT,’ things sort of snowballed. I ended writing a fun, even compelling story. And I did it quickly.

I may never write the existential, life-changing, earth-shattering work I secretly long to, but as long as I keep at it, I get closer to that truth. And in the meantime, I can’t say I failed for lack of trying.