On writing
14/11/12 05:03
I have a copy of the complete poems of Emily Dickinson on my desk at home. I don’t have a regular discipline about reading her poems, but I pick up the book from time to time and savor a poem or two. Poetry, for me, isn’t read at all like reading a novel or a book of theology. Poetry needs to be savored, read slowly, and often aloud. It needs to be mulled and sometimes one needs to return to a poem over and over again.
I like Emily Dickinson in part because I like her story. She was, to say the least, an eccentric person. She was born into a successful family and after graduating from the Amherst Academy, she spend a short time at Mount Holyoke Female Seminary before returning to her family’s home where she lived a reclusive life. Most of her friendships were carried out by correspondence. She wrote nearly 1,800 poems, but fewer than a dozen were published in her lifetime. Only after her death, when her sister Lavinia discovered her poems, were they published. Then it took a while for her to become recognized as the poetic genius that she was. Her poems deal with many themes, but death and immortality play heavily in her work. The point is that she didn’t write because she was being published. She didn’t write because it brought her fame or wealth. She wrote because she had to write. She wrote because being a writer was her identity, not her job.
Of course, if you want to be an Emily Dickinson it doesn’t hurt to come from a wealthy family so that you don’t have to earn a living in order to sustain yourself.
The process of writing is, of course, a fascination for me. I write an essay each day for an audience of dozens. My blog hasn’t exactly “gone viral,” and I don’t expect it to. I publish my essays in this fashion for a couple of reasons. I don’t want to discount the fact that I do enjoy having some people read my essays. I enjoy the comments that I receive from readers. But I have no fantasies about what I write having broad-based popular appeal. I am content with a few readers. I write primarily as a spiritual discipline. It is a way of sorting out my thoughts and ideas. It is a way of chronicling my life. It is a way of leaving a sort of record of my intellectual processes behind. And it is a way of connecting with things beyond myself.
It is not uncommon for me to read the rules for essay and short story contests. I have even indulged in fantasies about winning such contests. However, I won’t be winning in part because I don’t enter. I don’t think that prizes are the reason that I write.
Today we celebrate the anniversary of the US publication of what was to become a very famous novel. Moby-Dick was first published in England in October of 1851, in three volumes titled “The Whale.” On November 14 of that year it was released in the United States under the title by which we know the novel, “Moby-Dick.” It was a commercial flop. Herman Melville was very successful with his first published book, “Typee” about his experiences in Polynesia. The sequel, “Omoo,” published in 1847 was also successful. Three more novels followed, with mixed reviews. “Moby-Dick,” his sixth novel didn’t sell well at all. His career floundered after that with novels, short stories and poetries, but failed to earn enough money to support Melville. He made his living as a customs inspector. By the end of his life in 1891, he was largely forgotten as a writer. His final novel, “Billy Bud” remained unpublished for 33 years after his death.
I’m not sure what dynamic caused literary scholars to “rediscover” Melville in the 1920’s, but Moby-Dick became popular during that decade and since has remained on the list of recommended books for high school students. Most Americans now know the name Herman Melville and associate him with the epic novel Moby-Dick. The fame escaped him during his lifetime. The millions of dollars that the book has earned never came to him.
I don’t think that the promise of wealth or fame make for particular good writing. Certainly there are gifted writers who have earned both with their craft. And some of the successful writers have produced works of lasting value that will be remembered long after the end of their lives. But much of what garners public attention in today’s market will be forgotten within in a few years.
Richard Bach wrote “Jonathan Livingston Seagull” in 1970. The book was a huge success. It was turned down by several publishers before Macmillan decided to take a risk on the 10,000 word book. The book broke all hardcover sales records. It sold more than a million copies in 1972 alone. It was turned into a movie. Bach wrote another book, “Illusions: The Adventures of a Reluctant Messiah” that was published in 1977. It didn’t sell well. He pretty much sunk into obscurity after the movie about his first book was produced. When he was seriously injured in an airplane accident in August of this year, the event scarcely made the news reports. The public is fickle. Fame is fleeting.
Almost no one knows that Bach’s first wife, Bette, who typed and edited most of his writings, wrote her own book, “Patterns,” about her life as a single mother and pilot. I can’t help but thinking that the divorce was a bad career move for Bach. It certainly looks like his wife’s editing was critical to his success as a writer.
But it is too early to judge any living author. It takes time, sometimes a century or more, for the lasting value of any work to emerge.
Who knows, in the randomness of how things are preserved on the internet, perhaps one of my blogs will be read by someone a decade or more from now. Someone might even comb through all of the words (more than the length of “Jonathan Livingston Seagull” every two weeks) and find a sentence or two that is meaningful and worth remembering.
In the meantime, I write because it is who I am and what I do. And if you’ve read this essay to this conclusion, you are a rare individual. Not many people do.
I like Emily Dickinson in part because I like her story. She was, to say the least, an eccentric person. She was born into a successful family and after graduating from the Amherst Academy, she spend a short time at Mount Holyoke Female Seminary before returning to her family’s home where she lived a reclusive life. Most of her friendships were carried out by correspondence. She wrote nearly 1,800 poems, but fewer than a dozen were published in her lifetime. Only after her death, when her sister Lavinia discovered her poems, were they published. Then it took a while for her to become recognized as the poetic genius that she was. Her poems deal with many themes, but death and immortality play heavily in her work. The point is that she didn’t write because she was being published. She didn’t write because it brought her fame or wealth. She wrote because she had to write. She wrote because being a writer was her identity, not her job.
Of course, if you want to be an Emily Dickinson it doesn’t hurt to come from a wealthy family so that you don’t have to earn a living in order to sustain yourself.
The process of writing is, of course, a fascination for me. I write an essay each day for an audience of dozens. My blog hasn’t exactly “gone viral,” and I don’t expect it to. I publish my essays in this fashion for a couple of reasons. I don’t want to discount the fact that I do enjoy having some people read my essays. I enjoy the comments that I receive from readers. But I have no fantasies about what I write having broad-based popular appeal. I am content with a few readers. I write primarily as a spiritual discipline. It is a way of sorting out my thoughts and ideas. It is a way of chronicling my life. It is a way of leaving a sort of record of my intellectual processes behind. And it is a way of connecting with things beyond myself.
It is not uncommon for me to read the rules for essay and short story contests. I have even indulged in fantasies about winning such contests. However, I won’t be winning in part because I don’t enter. I don’t think that prizes are the reason that I write.
Today we celebrate the anniversary of the US publication of what was to become a very famous novel. Moby-Dick was first published in England in October of 1851, in three volumes titled “The Whale.” On November 14 of that year it was released in the United States under the title by which we know the novel, “Moby-Dick.” It was a commercial flop. Herman Melville was very successful with his first published book, “Typee” about his experiences in Polynesia. The sequel, “Omoo,” published in 1847 was also successful. Three more novels followed, with mixed reviews. “Moby-Dick,” his sixth novel didn’t sell well at all. His career floundered after that with novels, short stories and poetries, but failed to earn enough money to support Melville. He made his living as a customs inspector. By the end of his life in 1891, he was largely forgotten as a writer. His final novel, “Billy Bud” remained unpublished for 33 years after his death.
I’m not sure what dynamic caused literary scholars to “rediscover” Melville in the 1920’s, but Moby-Dick became popular during that decade and since has remained on the list of recommended books for high school students. Most Americans now know the name Herman Melville and associate him with the epic novel Moby-Dick. The fame escaped him during his lifetime. The millions of dollars that the book has earned never came to him.
I don’t think that the promise of wealth or fame make for particular good writing. Certainly there are gifted writers who have earned both with their craft. And some of the successful writers have produced works of lasting value that will be remembered long after the end of their lives. But much of what garners public attention in today’s market will be forgotten within in a few years.
Richard Bach wrote “Jonathan Livingston Seagull” in 1970. The book was a huge success. It was turned down by several publishers before Macmillan decided to take a risk on the 10,000 word book. The book broke all hardcover sales records. It sold more than a million copies in 1972 alone. It was turned into a movie. Bach wrote another book, “Illusions: The Adventures of a Reluctant Messiah” that was published in 1977. It didn’t sell well. He pretty much sunk into obscurity after the movie about his first book was produced. When he was seriously injured in an airplane accident in August of this year, the event scarcely made the news reports. The public is fickle. Fame is fleeting.
Almost no one knows that Bach’s first wife, Bette, who typed and edited most of his writings, wrote her own book, “Patterns,” about her life as a single mother and pilot. I can’t help but thinking that the divorce was a bad career move for Bach. It certainly looks like his wife’s editing was critical to his success as a writer.
But it is too early to judge any living author. It takes time, sometimes a century or more, for the lasting value of any work to emerge.
Who knows, in the randomness of how things are preserved on the internet, perhaps one of my blogs will be read by someone a decade or more from now. Someone might even comb through all of the words (more than the length of “Jonathan Livingston Seagull” every two weeks) and find a sentence or two that is meaningful and worth remembering.
In the meantime, I write because it is who I am and what I do. And if you’ve read this essay to this conclusion, you are a rare individual. Not many people do.