Becoming A Writer

Becoming A Writer

A Second Chance

My journey to becoming an author has been a lengthy one. I’m 71, and recently, I found an early effort at writing a sci-fi novel. It was printed on a dot-matrix printer that used heat to print on special paper instead of ink, and the printout was on a continuous roll of paper, no perforations for pages, just a tear-off blade like you find on a box of cellophane. I was 19 or 20 when I wrote it. The story concept isn’t horrible, but the writing isn’t so hot. I remember some earlier attempts as well.

I put my writing ideas aside because I had a growing family to feed, and that was my priority. The years rolled on, and my wife and I became empty-nesters, and somehow, financially stable. I added a secret hobby to my daily routine as my leisure time expanded; I started writing again. Just for me, mind you. This was not fan-fiction, even though I studied successful writers and tried to write short stories based on their novels as if they might have done them. But those efforts have never seen the light of day, and I doubt they ever will. I was attempting to learn how to write by mimicking artists I liked. It was practice.

I finally attempted a more prolonged effort and completed an entire story, which I shared with my wife. She enjoyed it and encouraged me to continue writing. I suspected that her support was primarily because my hobby kept me out of her hair. She was planning ahead, fully mindful of my rapidly approaching retirement.

I knew my brother-in-law, Mark, was writing and trying to get published because he had asked me to help edit some of his stories, which I did. That gave me the confidence to send my work to him, to get his opinion. He loved it and enthusiastically started sharing all his book writing techniques with me.

We lived on opposite ends of the country, but we talked about by phone and email frequently. He pointed out that the goal for an author was to get something published, an idea I’d always resisted. I didn’t have the best impression of the publishing industry. And I didn’t have the highest opinion of my writing either.

I had never referred to myself as an author as an artist, but Mark called me both. As he bombarded me with ideas on how he planned to get picked up by a publisher and lobbied me to join him in his effort, I picked his brain and started doing my own research on the publishing process. It gradually dawned on me that self-publishing had become easier than ever, thanks to Amazon and the Kindle, and that led me to explore the mechanics of self-publishing.

I began to notice authors who said they were indie’s, aka writers who were self-publishing. Some were good, some were great, and many of them stunk, but if they could do it, I could do it too.

I figured it all out and produced an e-version of a book. I got it edited and received some hard lessons about the predatory nature of vanity publishers. Then I discovered the concept of print-on-demand (POD) and I decided to add a paperback version of the book. Might as well do it all, right?

I figured out how to make a book cover, but I sucked at writing blurbs and back cover text. Still, I finished all of it, got a copyright for the book, and uploaded it all to Amazon. I immediately ordered ten proof copies of the paperback to give away to friends and family (and to proof-read myself). But I didn’t let the book go live; I still wasn’t sure.

At about that time, Mark died unexpectedly. Cancer took him fast; he’d been helping me think about an author website. He was excited for me, and then he was gone. I learned something new after that, how to write a dedication. I would never have reached that place without his encouragement.

I had to let the book go live then, because I’d promised him I would. I could still hear him ask, “What are you waiting for?” It became marginally easier to admit to strangers I was writing stories, but I still shied away from the notion I was an author and an artist. No, that wasn’t me.

I thought a lot about Mark after that, and also about what my journey meant. I thought about all the stories still floating around in my head, and I knew I wouldn’t stop writing. I thought about my reluctance to claim the words ‘author’ and ‘artist’ for myself. I just knew that I wasn’t good enough to own them. So I thought about that, too.

The truth I find for myself is this. Being an artist isn’t about being ‘good enough’ to claim the title, and it’s not about others seeing you in that way. It isn’t something a critic or an expert can make you by writing glowing reviews or critiquing your work, it’s about following your own heart and your own vision, regardless of whether anybody else cares. It’s Personal! I’ve claimed ‘author’ and ‘artist’ as accurate descriptors of myself. I’m happy that the world has changed enough so I can self-publish and not be reliant on anybody else when it comes to presenting my art to the world. It is a blessing that I don’t have to rely on earnings from my art to live. Not every artist is so fortunate.

Today, when people ask, I’m not shy about claiming the title of author, and I dare to think of myself as an artist. It wasn’t publishing a book that did it. It only happened when I let myself claim the title. It’s been a long journey, but worth it.