On losing and gaining authorial perspective

by navigating the winding road from cynicism to something beautiful

I’m a natural-born cynic.

Not because I see the darkness that lives at the center of all light but because I like looking at all angles, and nothing infuriates me more than a false/myopic claim that life can be easier/better if only we [fill in the ideology].

I always associate false promises with childhood. I remember a friend of our family who once approached me and, in good spirits, told me to pick a hand. Both fists behind his back, he beamed.

I asked him why, and he said to play along and pick a hand.

But why should I? I wondered. I mean, if he has bubblegum, I’m not a fan. If there’s chocolate in his hand, it’s probably melting. And as a kid, money only comes in cards on birthdays or after losing teeth.

I did not pick a hand.

As a writer, it’s INCREDIBLY EASY to become cynical. We see celebrity memoirs ghostwritten and lauded for “bravery” because they include scenes about puking up hot dogs in a mansion while adorned with $40,000 worth of jewelry (I made that up, but it’s a possible scene) and, conversely, we see immensely talented literary writers, whose works evoke empathy and understanding, ignored.

Some of the best writing out there is passed over by large publishing houses for what an agent/editor at one of these houses once told me was “work that appeals to the lowest common denominator” because “it has a better ROI.” Fifty Shades of Grey is the quintessential example, having sold over 150 million copies despite being of a quality that, dare I say, could be replicated by an algorithm.

To decode: I took this to mean work that focuses on sex, violence, overhyped promises, or anything to hit that adrenaline trigger in the system is work that appeals to the “lowest common denominator.”

Work that examines the prismatic nature of life or toils over sentences for the cadence that cuts to the soul is work that makes a reader pause. It might be unforgettable, and it might be read for a hundred years in place of a few months or year on the bestseller’s list, but it’s also more often assigned than picked up on a whim, ahead of its time, or destined to find an unorthodox way into the word.

I’d like to explore the beauty of this . . .

I am a small press author a few times over. And I’ll be honest, it’s hard. You ask friends to tell friends and hope they do. You get invites to events that turn out numbers in the dozens, rather than thousands, and booksellers say a silent prayer when they cosign your book.

I share things and post things, but I am also not a salesperson, so I post and share less often than recommended. And I’m (honestly) not a fan of those who market to me in traditional ways. Nor am I a fan of authors who feed their egos at the cost of swallowing up resources (monetary and human).

As a writing coach, I tell clients they MUST LOVE THE ART OF WRITING. They must love the act. They must love the process. Because there is a point where a project will either take fire or burn out. And unless one is a celebrity (or related to one or is friends with one or writing about one), it’s not guaranteed that a book will find its widest readership, no matter how good it is.

But there is that possibility … that slight possibility that people might find your work and not only find it but find it truly transformational. Whether that’s a dozen, a few hundred (the average small press book finds about 200 buying readers in its lifetime, folks), a few thousand, or a few million.

That possibility is nice, but how’s this for radical optimism: I am THRILLED to be a writer. I love it. I look forward to it. I love writing, working, and reworking sentences. I love those personal notes, even if people never share. I love the FLOW of words tap, tap, tapping on the keyboard with no guarantee of sensical meaning. I love reading others’ words when they feel as though they are speaking just to me, that writer and reader can have the sort of intimacy that is not to be bought or sold but feels deeper than that. The work we write and read that cuts through is what I live for.

The mendacity of Capitalist promise has consumed me many times in my life, wrapping me in promise and illusion. But the optimist in me shakes all that off and remembers how incredibly privileged I am that I grew up with access to a library and books that were not afraid to explore a variety of human experiences. These books helped me to visualize something better than I often felt as a child. They told me I was okay, more than okay, without picking a hand.

And if I can do that for any one person, I feel good about this life.