Crossroads

I find myself feeling that I'm at a “chapter change” or “crossroads” in my life. I've spent my life, up to this point, pursuing one primary goal, and now I find within myself the newfound ability to expand that goal; to explore alternative routes and decide upon one which might be a deviation from my original destination but which might, in the end, serve a more noble purpose.

Clear as mud? Let me back up a bit.

When I was four years of age, my older sister started kindergarten (back then, there was no such thing as pre-school or head start). She would come home from school every day and teach me what she had learned. By the time I was five, I was reading out of newspapers and encyclopedias. By the age of six, I had read the entire World Book Encyclopedia set, which was owned by my parents.

You've just read the beginning of my post...and here is the rest of it.

I loved to read. I loved stories, loved learning, and I loved the printed word. More than that, I loved language--both written and spoken. As a child, I used to listen to people talk and visualize the words, printed on the air and flowing out of the people's mouths. I believe that is one of the reasons why I am able to write great dialog.

The memory is still clear in my mind. There came a morning, when I was five years old, when I was sitting at the kitchen table reading the newspaper. On the front page was a story about a fifteen-year-old boy who had gotten a book published, and he had received payment for his efforts. This concept--that somebody could write a story, submit it to a publisher, and receive money for it--was entirely new to me. I knew then and there that I wanted to be a writer.

Writing became my life's ambition. My parents argued loudly and tenaciously with each other for many years, and my reading and writing quickly became my escape. I found that I could hide in my bedroom, lock the door, and disappear into another world, simply by opening a book or picking up a pencil and working on a story. In this way, writing became a lifesaving presence for me; something I clung to in order to maintain my sanity.

I'm now thirty-three years old. I think back to my elementary, middle school, and high school years, and the writing I did and awards I won are fading memories. They're good memories, but they are fading with time. Not only that, but my life's experience has given me perspective. With five books published and a negative net profit to show for it, I have learned the hard way that the publishing industry cares far less for literary talent than they do for marketability.

Publishing is a business, and while publishers and editors have an affinity for talented authors, they will always--always--choose a less talented, marketable author over one with talent who has little or no marketability.

Have you ever picked up a bestselling book, read it, and found yourself thinking, “How did this thing even get published, much less become a bestseller?” It's because of marketability. The editor looked at the proposed manuscript, saw in it something that many consumers would be likely to purchase, and made the business decision to publish the book.

Which brings me around to where I am today. My first five books were all published with small publishing houses, none of whom could afford to pay me an advance, and none of whom could distribute and market my book so that it would be placed on the shelves in bookstores. As an outgoing, entrepreneurial author, I went out to the bookstores, libraries, grocery stores, comic book stores, and various other businesses myself. I spent many hundreds of dollars--out of my own pocket--promoting, marketing, and advertising my books. Five books and four years later, I still haven't turned a profit.

I suppose, to some who read this, it might appear as though I'm simply not a talented writer of fiction. Such is not the case. Cindy Penn, Senior Editor for The Midwest Book Review, read three of my novels and gave each of them her top rating (five stars), saying that I am “a horror master,” and comparing my writing style to Stephen King and Dean Koontz.

Even with these rave reviews printed on the back covers, my books simply wouldn't sell.

With all that I've been through in the past couple of years: the divorce, the way my attorney and the divorce judge abused me while handling my case, my steadily increasing descent into the world of poverty, my automobile accident, and the personally-written rejection letter of my latest manuscript by the executive editor of a large, New York publishing house (who requested the manuscript and then rejected it, saying that he loved the work but didn't have room for it in his agenda)...after all of this, I've reached the point where I'm reevaluating my life's dream.

I had one point, during the divorce, where I told everyone I was through writing, but at that time I didn't mean it--and I knew I didn't mean it. I was just under so much stress and my emotions were in so much turmoil that I couldn't deal with it anymore.

This is different.

This is looking back over all the years, over all the writing, all my struggles, all my accomplishments, and thinking to myself, “Maybe I shouldn't be writing fiction, after all.”

I've had many people, over the years, tell me that they enjoyed reading my non-fiction (such as this blog) far more than they liked reading my fiction. They were always quick to point out that I was a damned good fiction writer, but that they liked my non-fiction even better. That never really made much sense to me, and to be honest with you it still doesn't make a lot of sense, but I'm beginning to understand how people might see things that way.

My problem is that I think too much. And, after I've thought too much, I think even more...I think deeper, and I don't let things go away. Concepts, thoughts, ideas, float around in my head without ever really disappearing. I've got friends who I talk to and say, “Remember when you told me such-and-such?”

They look at me, blink, and then say, “No. When did I say that?”

I say something like, “Oh, it was when we were walking through the mall last Christmas,” or “It was back when we were in high school.”

That's when their expression turns to awe, and they express total astonishment at my power of recollection.

The thing is, it's not so much recollection as it is retention. One of my friends tells me that he thinks I have a photographic (eidetic) memory. I don't. I just have a brain that doesn't want to let things go. Often, when I want to remember something, I find that the information eludes me. It's when I'm thinking of something else--something that may not even be closely related--that the memory will resurface, and I'll sit there going, “Hmmm...that sure was a long time ago.”

This, I think, is the quality of my brain which enables me to reason things out to such a deep level (as with my blog article, “The One Thing”). My brain thinks too much, goes deeper, takes a break, dives a bit deeper, takes a break, dives deeper...and the next thing I know, I'm so far into the concept that I wonder how I ever got there.

But the observations, views, and concepts I come up with along the way are what I think people enjoy reading. Also, I think people like my writing style. (Hey, Cindy Penn said I write like Stephen King and Dean Koontz, so I must be doing something right.)

I look at my life, my writing, and I think back to the coppery-headed five-year-old boy I once was, sitting at that kitchen table, reading the newspaper, feeling the goose flesh spring up on my arms as I realized I was meant to be a writer...and I understand now, that it's okay. I'm not betraying my younger self, nor am I throwing away my dream of being a writer...nor am I betraying the tremendous efforts I put forth in my previous works.

Everything that happened, up to this point, happened to bring me to where I am today. It was a learning process, a life-experience-gaining process, and without it I would not be who or what I am. And, as a result, my nonfiction writing (which is what I hope to now pursue) would not be everything that it now is or will be in the days, months, and (if I'm lucky) years to come.

Someday (hopefully sooner than later), I will write a nonfiction book. When that day comes, I have no idea what that book will be about. All I know is that I must write, and in so doing I hope to make some sort of a positive difference in the world around me. Eventually, that will mean writing more books.

For now, it means writing this blog.