Beginnings, Part II

In college, I was one of those "strange people" who deliberately sought out courses that had a "heavy writing component." Truth be know, I'd much rather write a long essay, than have to get up in front of the class to present something, or be part of group work.

I was never an English major, however, as I was talked out of following any kind of writing track. Even my sophomore English professor-- who was an accomplished and published writer-- suggested that it was a bad idea to pursue writing for a living, and that fewer than 5% of writers actually made a living from the craft. Although the idea of being "a writer" really appealed to me, I had already been somewhat "conditioned" against the idea by family, so I didn't take a lot of persuading.

I did, however, take a number of creative writing courses, while in college. One of the primary lessons I got I learned in a short story writing class, where one entire 3-hour session turned into a Q&A with the professor, about becoming an author.

Naturally, one of the questions asked was "What exactly does it take to become a published author?" The professor responded that all it took was the ability to string together 75,000 words of prose, in some reasonably coherent fashion. This didn't sit well with the aspiring Hemingway's who were looking for an answer that involved words like "talent," "mastery of English" or "an original idea." Ultimately, the point was that less than 1% of what is published is "literature" quality-- the majority of books come from very mediocre writers who she the one commonality that they have the determination and discipline to sit down and write. And then to market the hell out of themselves, not giving up because they have received 85 rejection slips in a row.

I got a nice degree in Finance, and went into the business world, feeling largely like I didn't belong... but having the hope that I was doing "the right thing."

Beginnings, Part I

When I was six years old, my mother bought some blank exercise books for me. It was her hope that I would turn out to be artistic, and the purpose of the books was to teach me how to "draw outsde the lines."

Within about two weeks, I had filled all three exercise books. However, it was not with the drawings my mother hoped for-- it was with words.

To this day, I believe she was a little disappointed.

My Life As A Writer has been a mixed bag. In a sense, you could argue that I have been in denial about the writing life. Although I wrote from a very early age, it wasn't ever a childhood dream to "become a writer." I had the usual childhood aspirations-- and even some of my more esoteric "what I'm gonna be when I grow up's" (like being a stamp dealer) did not include writing.

And yet I "knew" that I was a writer.

When I was in my teens, I briefly muttered some words to the effect that I enjoyed writing, but my intent was weak and the idea was easily tossed aside by my mother's insistence that writers were "flakes and people who had no direction in their lives, and besides, you can't make a proper living that way-- and people in our family do not live in poverty."

So I restricted my writing activities to journals, and to writing lengthy letters to friends and family. Friends who often told my mother what a good writer I was. She beamed at her "coolness by association," and then would say "don't give him any ideas."