THE UPS and DOWNS of WRITING FICTION

Sometimes You Want to Get Hit by a Bus

I’ve been writing a long time. Like, almost forty years long. But it doesn’t matter how many years I’ve written, or what I’ve gotten published, or what I have on the backburner (ten or twelve novels, five of which I believe are worth publishing), none of it ever matters. Every day (and I write every day, even if it’s not fiction I’m writing—I write notes for current novels, notes for future novels, dialogue, whatever) I feel like nothing changes. I got a high from seeing my first published story. Ditto my first piece of nonfiction. And my debut novel. For that, I even got drunk. But once that high dissipates, and believe me, it dissipates, there’s nothing left but ambition. But the desire and need to write. And by need I mean need: I can’t not write. It’s how I know I’m a writer. It’s how I know this is what I was meant to do. But man, it gets disheartening, so much failure. I thought by my age I’d have a novel published by a big, and with that, all of the little perks that come from that. I know all the stories. Frank McCourt wrote Angela’s Ashes in his 60s. Bram Stoker wrote Dracula at age 50. Henry Miller’s The Tropic of Cancer got published when he was 44. It doesn’t matter, of course. But some of us have to vent sometimes, even when we’re able to write daily. This is my vent.

I read something funny one time about a writer, though I can’t remember who that writer was nor who he/she (I’m pretty sure it’s a he) was talking about, but someone interviewing the author asked a question (and I’m paraphrasing) about what they thought when some other author got a novel published or received a high advance for their book or got some critical praise in some big book review. Naturally, the interviewer was expecting some nicety from the author or whatever, something like, “I love X writer and can’t wait for their next book!” or something, but the author just said, “I hope they get hit by a bus.” Classic response, in my opinion. I loved it. And not because, of course, I want anyone to get hit by a bus. That’s a hell of a way to go. But the author was showing the frustration most writers experience at some time in their writing lives when the effort they put in doesn’t quite seem to be reciprocated by the gods of literature. I get it. Been there, bought the T-shirt.

So, what to do? Naturally, if you’re a writer, you’re not giving up. You’re going to write and write and write, and if you’re a short story writer you’re going to look to get published in literary journals, and if you’re a novelist you’re going to look for a literary agent (if you don’t have one yet) so they can try to “find a home” for your novel, and if you’re a . . . well, you get what I’m saying. You’re a writer. I don’t need to tell you the things you have to do to “succeed” in this business. You know what those things are, and you know they aren’t always the most pleasant things you could be doing with your days. Like anything, writing is a job, and your job isn’t going to be peaches and cream every day. Some days you’re not going to be able to write what you want to write. Some days you’re going to write crap (probably most days). Some days you’re going to complete a novel or short story or short and be happy for a little bit and then you’re going to get that thing churning in you that says, get your butt back in the chair and write, you loser! Stop procrastinating. And so that’s what you do. You put away whatever you just finished, sit your butt back in the chair, and you try to pretend what you’re doing matters to someone. Or to your cat. Or your fish. Whatever.

What I’m saying is, these are the ups and downs of writing fiction. You’re sitting at a desk or at the kitchen table, in the Florida room where it’s too f’in hot or in the basement or bathroom, where you can hide from the noise your kids are making upstairs, or where the TV’s too loud because your father-in-law or ex-drummer uncle who never wore earplugs is blasting the boob tube because he’s deaf, or wherever you can avoid anything and everyone and everything that stops you from getting a few damn words on the page. And, even if you do get that writing done, who cares? Really? Who? As a successful writer friend of mine said, “No one. That’s who.” And he was write. No one cares. Except you. And, for the most part, you’re failing at it!

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But fail better, right? Isn’t that what they say? Fail better? And I do, I think. I do fail better. But it doesn’t seem to matter. I send out my queries and I write a first draft of a novel pretty much every year, and I work on the various other novels I’ve written that are in various stages of rewrites, some of which I’ve revised over a hundred times and over the course of twenty-three years. But all I get from the queries recently are bupkis. Or, to be fair, I do get a few responses, most of which are “Thanks but no thanks, I just didn’t connect with . . .,” etc. etc. And this is from different agents who’ve read excerpts from a couple different novels (I tend to query agents with two different novels at a time—not to the same agent, but I’ll send out queries for one novel to x number of agents and then I’ll send out queries for a different novel to x number of agents, and I’ll wait. And wait. Until I forget about them unless six months, twelve months, eighteen months down the line I’ll get a “Thanks but no thanks, I just didn’t connect with . . .,” etc. etc. Which, if I was a beginning writer, would hurt more than it does. Because it ain’t no fun getting rejected, but after as many years as I’ve been writing, and with as many rejections under my belt that I’ve received, I’ve become immune. Always hopeful, but immune to the rejection.

I guess what I’m saying is, you never know when “it” will happen. “It” being getting that yes from some agent. “It” being getting that call from your agent that they sold your book to YourFavoritePublisher. “It” being the review in the New York Times or the big payday or your grandma calling you on the phone to send you fifty bucks and ask you if you’ll Skype with her book club, even if the last time you “Skyped” was fifteen years ago (grandma we use Teams/Whatsapp/Webex/Google Meet! now, WTF is Skype!). Although “It” might just be the twenty-something first time novelist whose Fantasy novel about Dragons fighting each other on planet ;alkfjgkwrjgklj that sold three million copies on Tuesday gets hit by that bus and then run over by the San Francisco Railway somewhere between Filbert and Vallejo and dragged all the way to Market because the conductor was reading his dragon book and couldn’t pull himself away from it.

Keep Truckin. You'll Get to Where You Want to be as a Writer. Or not. Maybe not. Who Knows.

But write, my fellow writer, write. You never know when your day will come. You never know when Stephen King will call you to tell you he loved your book and . . . and . . . he wants to blurb it with his friend YourOtherFavoriteHorrorWriter following suit. But, of course, you know the chances of that happening. You know the odds of winning that literary lottery. Because you’re a writer. Because you’re a pro. Because you couldn’t stop, even if you wanted to. And because, if you’re lucky, if that lightning bolt comes down for you, if the gods of the literati pick you, my friend, maybe you’ll pull that winning bingo number and get run over too. Now, wouldn’t that be great?

Waiting for the Horse to Run me Over or Kick me in the Head.

Cully Perlman is a novelist, short story writer, blogger, substantive editor, and a guy hoping he gets hit by a bus. Or a train. Or maybe a horse with three legs. He’ll take whatever he can get. And he can be reached at Cully@novelmasterclass.com