The Curmudgeon of Birch Hollow
Another blog in the “not-requested or even desired” learn to write tutorial series. If you’re at all squeamish or a sensitive writer don’t read this. It’ll sting!
It’s been brought to my attention that some folks around here, those who I thought would love me to death, now believe me to be somewhat of an ogre. A curmudgeon. A snarly old fart one dare not approach for anything, any time. The guy you won’t be inviting to a party, ever! As the song alludes, the one you don’t bring home to mother!
I suppose there’s some truth to the curmudgeon characterization. Yes, I can be quite sharp tongued, sporting a frown as big as all outdoors, reclusive and miserly, and woefully uninspiring. I’ve been known to spit fire especially at the poor sod who shows up on this doorstep selling something, anything. Being in the wrong place at the wrong time you might say. If I’m in the middle of a paragraph of a tome I’m particularly dedicated, and you bother me in my safe haven, you shall pay dearly for the intrusion. In the old days I could keep a thought for more than a few moments. An intrusion now at the right time, and I just lose the whole point of the affair.
As I’ve strongly endorsed and subsequently inscribed as a motto on my future tombstone, (recorded in other blog entries this winter of 2007), the middle age crazy period of my life has definitely eroded my patience for pointless discussion and ridiculous negotiation. I’m not going to be nice solely to please society. Buzz off, I say! In my mind I’ve jumped onto my imaginary chopper and begun a mental mission of self discovery on the road to nowhere in particular. With some chagrin, I sheepishly admit, my wife has made it clear I am not to purchase any motorized two wheeled machine. She can’t stop me reading the book, “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.,” however; a well worn text that I keep at my side for periodic fantasy road trips. But the problem here is that there is always something or other thrust in front of my creative escape. Such as the rigors of family enterprise and the need to make money. I have a fair amount of guilt about not winding-out the ink trail on some great new novel that will pay the bills to eternity. Alas, I’m not a novelist. Historians have a bitch of atime thinking outside the box. History is a box. I suppose if I had to do it all over again, sure, I probably would have toyed with fiction writing as a paying profession. I would probably still be a starving artist but I guess the perks of wandering around as a depressed novelist, and hanging around hole-in-the-wall coffee shops with equally unfulfilled musicians would at least make me feel like I was a writer cause it’s says so on my business cards.
I have always lived a journeyman writer’s life. I’ve wordsmithed many pieces for those who couldn’t compose for lover nor money, and there has never been a subject yet that I wouldn’t entertain a minor foray for the right price. There was an occasion when a piece I wrote was so well received by readers, that the author got some serious extra perks…..only he wasn’t the real penman. I got my money to perform the task, and he got the additional writing opportunities and I never heard from the bloke again.
Every year I work with several fledgling writers, not for pay but by choice, something I believe the veterans of the industry must share with future torch bearers. Each time I spend about a week’s worth of time trying to convince them to pursue anything else in life but writing. That’s also my responsibility, and I do take it seriously. It’s true that I’ve scared a few teetering authors out of the industry but truthfully, I’ve encouraged twenty times that to carry on with their dreams. A few have come back and offered thanks for my advice and several have told me that my description of what their lives would be like, as a struggling writer, was remarkably accurate. It’s always a special moment when a doomsayer’s predictions have some merit.
I can usually see it in their eyes; the sparkle of insight, letting me know that they recognize how difficult it will be in the future, to gouge out even a meager existence in the writing trade. I have had enormous conflict with those writing coaches and teachers who give false hope to their underlings about the attainability of writing milestones. I can’t tell you how many arguments I’ve had with those who inflate student expectation with unwarranted praise. The last thing a rookie writer needs is to go into a newspaper position, for example, with a viewpoint their work is stellar, only to be ripped apart by the publisher and editor as too wordy, too weak, and of the high school paper variety. Instead of pointing out the boiling, frothing cauldron that is the writing profession at its heart, these tutors have avoided the unpleasantness of reality in favor of giving the “we’re all winners,” motivational speech that destines the apprentice to fail quickly.
I’ve watched many talented young writers in our region fail because they got knocked off their high perch by the carnivorous, murderous reality of the dog eat dog publishing industry. I’ve watched dozens turn to other professions because they could not tolerate anyone criticizing their work. Gads. I’ve worn the barbs of criticism like a badge since I was a rookie columnist for the local press, writing about antiques and collectables for God’s sake. For every gain I’ve made as a writer wishing an audience, I’ve suffered a parallel set-back. In fact, if I didn’t have a crushing defeat after every so called milestone achievement, I’d feel the Devil had come to the belief I was an unworthy object of scrutiny. That would be a disaster, as set-backs are the counter balance I now depend on to actually move forward. Now try to explain this to a wide-eyed young writer, who has already set out how the royalties will be spent on creature comforts.
I let my apprentices know up front and personal, that before all is said and done with my instruction, they will appreciate the concept of trial by error, sense the bowel of depression before it digests them, see the horizon barbs hidden in that radiant sphere, and believe that without adversity there is no victory. I’ve had several fiction writers dismiss me as the curse of the old-author-kind, to be bypassed like the keeper of the bridge in the Monty Python Quest for the Holy Grail.
Every one who has called me the bearer of really bad news, the rainmaker over their parade, has failed to step one writing credit forward ever since. They didn’t want to hear about the pain and suffering an artist must endure in order to achieve even modest success. It was my impression they wanted it NOW! They wanted to be sitting in an ocean-front bungalow writing best selling novels, and thinking about shelving to accommodate their many literary awards forthcoming. They’re the ones who ask me, at our first meeting, if they can see my collection of writing awards, as reference I suppose to earning the right to teach others. I tell them to, “look into my eyes and if you see the flames of despair, and yet the twinkle of mischief within hope springing eternal,” you’ve seen my awards without need of even one pine shelf. They just look at me as if I’m a full blown nutter with a regular byline.
Another aspiring author wrote a manuscript that was horrible, and I didn’t, hell I couldn’t for his own good mince words. What I did say was that it was a work in progress, so keep upgrading until it hurts….I mean really hurts. Just at the point of tossing it into the garbage and swearing off writing forever, either it’s a work to let sit for awhile to revisit later, or a truly bad piece that deserves to be shed like any uncomfortable relationship. Instead the budding author decided I was a jerk and went ahead with self publication. I can now buy any quantity of these books at the local thrift shop for a buck or less, most appearing to have been thinly consumed if read at all by their respective former owners. Even as a collectable book dealer I will never sell one of these titles, autographed or not.
One young writer I have watched locally shows a tremendous potential simply by the fact she has, without complaining, adjusted to each new reality, which by my observation has been doggedly wicked. The fact she still returns to her craft after each disaster and self imposed hiatus, is proof she isn’t easily cast out of the foyer of the profession. Usually by the fifth to tenth rejection letter, or an equal number of thwarted, ended-early projects, a fledgling writer without willpower has resorted to any other profession, temporary or long term just to distance from the devil’s breath.
When some of my associates who have known me for years, suggest that old Currie’s an example of “misery loves company,” I get a chuckle actually, and feel pretty good that they’re at the very least, still paying attention to the stuff I write. I love working with people who are realistic and can take a pummeling and request some more for good measure. I will work as long as it takes to inspire a young scribe to push onward, setback after setback, because in all honesty, there is nothing more awesome than to see a well deserved byline on a major piece, that is as strong in composition, content and argument, as the cut of the penman’s enduring jib.
I might be a grumpy old man by the measure of those who wish me to wear happiness like a clown suit. What they don’t realize, I’m sure, is that a writer’s life is an open book and the image between the covers isn’t a soul laden with optimism. Rather it is varnished, barnacle covered tangle of nerves and expectation, wrapped around a suspicious nature cradling an oft broken heart. Don’t feel sorry for me, or any other writer who seems precariously unbalanced. It’s just our bedraggled emotions hanging out for all to see. Our relationship with reality is an expression of half desperation, about a toe-hold and a half away from a feeding, soul harvesting inner madness. The writer’s rolling year imprints the grain of real time, real life, engraved in biography. All the blood that is squeezed forcefully through our ink blackened veins arrives in chapter of a soon to be finished story….. hopefully someone will choose to read.
So you want to be a writer. I know a tutor. He’s a bastard!
To sooth the savage beast, I will in a moment from now, find that old padded down trail through the woods here at Birch Hollow, and wax poetic about environmental good grace….and all will be the philosophy and salvation of another day, another few words expended, to record my humble place on this crazy old earth. Thanks for reading my blog submissions. Come on Bosko, it’s time for a walk! She doesn’t mind a little criticism from time to time, and I don’t half care when she bites hard on my leg, for just about any shortfall of protocol…..a shortfall in the biscuit jar particularly.
Another blog in the “not-requested or even desired” learn to write tutorial series. If you’re at all squeamish or a sensitive writer don’t read this. It’ll sting!
It’s been brought to my attention that some folks around here, those who I thought would love me to death, now believe me to be somewhat of an ogre. A curmudgeon. A snarly old fart one dare not approach for anything, any time. The guy you won’t be inviting to a party, ever! As the song alludes, the one you don’t bring home to mother!
I suppose there’s some truth to the curmudgeon characterization. Yes, I can be quite sharp tongued, sporting a frown as big as all outdoors, reclusive and miserly, and woefully uninspiring. I’ve been known to spit fire especially at the poor sod who shows up on this doorstep selling something, anything. Being in the wrong place at the wrong time you might say. If I’m in the middle of a paragraph of a tome I’m particularly dedicated, and you bother me in my safe haven, you shall pay dearly for the intrusion. In the old days I could keep a thought for more than a few moments. An intrusion now at the right time, and I just lose the whole point of the affair.
As I’ve strongly endorsed and subsequently inscribed as a motto on my future tombstone, (recorded in other blog entries this winter of 2007), the middle age crazy period of my life has definitely eroded my patience for pointless discussion and ridiculous negotiation. I’m not going to be nice solely to please society. Buzz off, I say! In my mind I’ve jumped onto my imaginary chopper and begun a mental mission of self discovery on the road to nowhere in particular. With some chagrin, I sheepishly admit, my wife has made it clear I am not to purchase any motorized two wheeled machine. She can’t stop me reading the book, “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.,” however; a well worn text that I keep at my side for periodic fantasy road trips. But the problem here is that there is always something or other thrust in front of my creative escape. Such as the rigors of family enterprise and the need to make money. I have a fair amount of guilt about not winding-out the ink trail on some great new novel that will pay the bills to eternity. Alas, I’m not a novelist. Historians have a bitch of atime thinking outside the box. History is a box. I suppose if I had to do it all over again, sure, I probably would have toyed with fiction writing as a paying profession. I would probably still be a starving artist but I guess the perks of wandering around as a depressed novelist, and hanging around hole-in-the-wall coffee shops with equally unfulfilled musicians would at least make me feel like I was a writer cause it’s says so on my business cards.
I have always lived a journeyman writer’s life. I’ve wordsmithed many pieces for those who couldn’t compose for lover nor money, and there has never been a subject yet that I wouldn’t entertain a minor foray for the right price. There was an occasion when a piece I wrote was so well received by readers, that the author got some serious extra perks…..only he wasn’t the real penman. I got my money to perform the task, and he got the additional writing opportunities and I never heard from the bloke again.
Every year I work with several fledgling writers, not for pay but by choice, something I believe the veterans of the industry must share with future torch bearers. Each time I spend about a week’s worth of time trying to convince them to pursue anything else in life but writing. That’s also my responsibility, and I do take it seriously. It’s true that I’ve scared a few teetering authors out of the industry but truthfully, I’ve encouraged twenty times that to carry on with their dreams. A few have come back and offered thanks for my advice and several have told me that my description of what their lives would be like, as a struggling writer, was remarkably accurate. It’s always a special moment when a doomsayer’s predictions have some merit.
I can usually see it in their eyes; the sparkle of insight, letting me know that they recognize how difficult it will be in the future, to gouge out even a meager existence in the writing trade. I have had enormous conflict with those writing coaches and teachers who give false hope to their underlings about the attainability of writing milestones. I can’t tell you how many arguments I’ve had with those who inflate student expectation with unwarranted praise. The last thing a rookie writer needs is to go into a newspaper position, for example, with a viewpoint their work is stellar, only to be ripped apart by the publisher and editor as too wordy, too weak, and of the high school paper variety. Instead of pointing out the boiling, frothing cauldron that is the writing profession at its heart, these tutors have avoided the unpleasantness of reality in favor of giving the “we’re all winners,” motivational speech that destines the apprentice to fail quickly.
I’ve watched many talented young writers in our region fail because they got knocked off their high perch by the carnivorous, murderous reality of the dog eat dog publishing industry. I’ve watched dozens turn to other professions because they could not tolerate anyone criticizing their work. Gads. I’ve worn the barbs of criticism like a badge since I was a rookie columnist for the local press, writing about antiques and collectables for God’s sake. For every gain I’ve made as a writer wishing an audience, I’ve suffered a parallel set-back. In fact, if I didn’t have a crushing defeat after every so called milestone achievement, I’d feel the Devil had come to the belief I was an unworthy object of scrutiny. That would be a disaster, as set-backs are the counter balance I now depend on to actually move forward. Now try to explain this to a wide-eyed young writer, who has already set out how the royalties will be spent on creature comforts.
I let my apprentices know up front and personal, that before all is said and done with my instruction, they will appreciate the concept of trial by error, sense the bowel of depression before it digests them, see the horizon barbs hidden in that radiant sphere, and believe that without adversity there is no victory. I’ve had several fiction writers dismiss me as the curse of the old-author-kind, to be bypassed like the keeper of the bridge in the Monty Python Quest for the Holy Grail.
Every one who has called me the bearer of really bad news, the rainmaker over their parade, has failed to step one writing credit forward ever since. They didn’t want to hear about the pain and suffering an artist must endure in order to achieve even modest success. It was my impression they wanted it NOW! They wanted to be sitting in an ocean-front bungalow writing best selling novels, and thinking about shelving to accommodate their many literary awards forthcoming. They’re the ones who ask me, at our first meeting, if they can see my collection of writing awards, as reference I suppose to earning the right to teach others. I tell them to, “look into my eyes and if you see the flames of despair, and yet the twinkle of mischief within hope springing eternal,” you’ve seen my awards without need of even one pine shelf. They just look at me as if I’m a full blown nutter with a regular byline.
Another aspiring author wrote a manuscript that was horrible, and I didn’t, hell I couldn’t for his own good mince words. What I did say was that it was a work in progress, so keep upgrading until it hurts….I mean really hurts. Just at the point of tossing it into the garbage and swearing off writing forever, either it’s a work to let sit for awhile to revisit later, or a truly bad piece that deserves to be shed like any uncomfortable relationship. Instead the budding author decided I was a jerk and went ahead with self publication. I can now buy any quantity of these books at the local thrift shop for a buck or less, most appearing to have been thinly consumed if read at all by their respective former owners. Even as a collectable book dealer I will never sell one of these titles, autographed or not.
One young writer I have watched locally shows a tremendous potential simply by the fact she has, without complaining, adjusted to each new reality, which by my observation has been doggedly wicked. The fact she still returns to her craft after each disaster and self imposed hiatus, is proof she isn’t easily cast out of the foyer of the profession. Usually by the fifth to tenth rejection letter, or an equal number of thwarted, ended-early projects, a fledgling writer without willpower has resorted to any other profession, temporary or long term just to distance from the devil’s breath.
When some of my associates who have known me for years, suggest that old Currie’s an example of “misery loves company,” I get a chuckle actually, and feel pretty good that they’re at the very least, still paying attention to the stuff I write. I love working with people who are realistic and can take a pummeling and request some more for good measure. I will work as long as it takes to inspire a young scribe to push onward, setback after setback, because in all honesty, there is nothing more awesome than to see a well deserved byline on a major piece, that is as strong in composition, content and argument, as the cut of the penman’s enduring jib.
I might be a grumpy old man by the measure of those who wish me to wear happiness like a clown suit. What they don’t realize, I’m sure, is that a writer’s life is an open book and the image between the covers isn’t a soul laden with optimism. Rather it is varnished, barnacle covered tangle of nerves and expectation, wrapped around a suspicious nature cradling an oft broken heart. Don’t feel sorry for me, or any other writer who seems precariously unbalanced. It’s just our bedraggled emotions hanging out for all to see. Our relationship with reality is an expression of half desperation, about a toe-hold and a half away from a feeding, soul harvesting inner madness. The writer’s rolling year imprints the grain of real time, real life, engraved in biography. All the blood that is squeezed forcefully through our ink blackened veins arrives in chapter of a soon to be finished story….. hopefully someone will choose to read.
So you want to be a writer. I know a tutor. He’s a bastard!
To sooth the savage beast, I will in a moment from now, find that old padded down trail through the woods here at Birch Hollow, and wax poetic about environmental good grace….and all will be the philosophy and salvation of another day, another few words expended, to record my humble place on this crazy old earth. Thanks for reading my blog submissions. Come on Bosko, it’s time for a walk! She doesn’t mind a little criticism from time to time, and I don’t half care when she bites hard on my leg, for just about any shortfall of protocol…..a shortfall in the biscuit jar particularly.
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