Tim Parks’ Writing To Win (over at the NYRB) is
making the rounds as a link-of-the-day. In the space of a few paragraphs, Parks pinpoints some of the
wilder absurdities that enmesh the lives of those aspiring to, and occasionally
reaching, the Olympus of Pro-Writin’.
Lots to interact with, here: Salman Rushdie as indefatigable
self-aggrandizing blowhard, the general public’s patronizing/pitying attitude
toward aspiring artists, the hoi polloi’s (mostly) uncritical approval of those
who “make it,” etc. This is the bit that won me:
“Every year, I teach creative writing to
just a couple of students. These are people in their mid-twenties in a British
post-graduate course who come to me in Italy as part of an exchange program.
The prospect of publication, the urgent need, as they see it, to publish as
soon as possible, colors everything they do. Often they will drop an
interesting line of exploration, something they have been working on, because
they feel compelled to produce something that looks more 'publishable,' which
is to say, commercial. It will be hard for those who have never suffered this
obsession to appreciate how all-conditioning and all-consuming it can be. These
ambitious young people set deadlines for themselves. When the deadlines aren’t
met their self-esteem plummets; a growing bitterness with the crassness of
modern culture and the mercenary nature, as they perceive it, of publishers and
editors barely disguises a crushing sense of personal failure.”
That’s a fairly
apt description of my mid-twenties, when I took my shot at Pro Writin’. As my
pursuit dragged on, I found that the stuff getting accepted or commissioned was
increasingly of less interest to me than the stuff getting rejected — an ill
omen for someone dreaming he might one day live off what he wrote. Better,
then, to find another line of work that paid the bills, and devote a segment of
my free time to the writin’ I enjoyed.
There is a
temptation to wave Parks’ screed as a “sour grapes” manifesto for giving up The
Dream (witlessly aligning myself with Alice Munro’s legion of subdued losers).
But I remain chiefly struck by Parks’ opening gambit: “One of the great mysteries of the writer’s life is the transformation
that occurs when he or she passes from being an unpublished to a published
novelist.”
I suspect
Parks’ observation is truer in the larger markets — particularly among those
writers who have a shot at international renown. In my experience, most of the
published Canadian novelists I’ve interacted with are receptive and
encouraging, rarely hesitating to lend their imprimatur to a wannabe’s maiden
effort.
There are
reasons for this. The CanFic scene remains a small pond, abundantly stocked
with schools of small publishers. And even those novelists who score contracts
with Random Penguin, or Harper, are rarely in a position to quit their day
jobs. If you want to be read by anybody in this country, you’d better be nice
to everybody in this country.* **
I doubt anyone
was nicer to everyone in this country — or any country, really, because she
went “international” — than the late Carol
Shields. Having encountered her first in 1986 and again, some years after
she’d won her Pulitzer Prize for The
Stone Diaries, I was left with the deep impression that this woman hadn’t
been much changed by either publication, or critical recognition, or fame. A
remarkable writer, and a remarkable person — of which, more anon.
*Cue the chorus of upstarts demanding a
more critical national culture.
**It’s a rare Canuck novelist who
reaches such lofty heights as to afford a prickly demeanor. Margaret Atwood
inevitably springs to mind, though I suspect her bitchy reputation is somewhat
overblown.
1 comment:
Darrell, Great piece, this. AS regards that footnote re. Ms Atwood and her reputation.....I've heard stories of personal interactions from non-threatening persons with her that affirm that reputation. But, if that is her only glaring fault, well, the best to her; everyone carries their own version of a shield.
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