I chase the words outside, hunting them down one by one, following their tracks through deep snow. They twist and turn and laugh at my feeble attempts to capture them. Some escape into the woods, while others succumb to my net. I trap them and nail them to the page. They scream and curse me, but this grim task must be done.
The story demands it.
Writers are driven to tell their stories, their words flowing like a swift and steady river. But sometimes the river isn’t alway flowing. Sometimes pesky beavers build a dam and the backup forces floodwaters over the riverbanks and into the town.
Other times the beavers eat your face.
Look, writing is hard.
Finding relevance as a writer is hard.
Hitting your stride as a writer is hard.
Unless you’ve dedicated years of practice to it, or are exceptionally lucky, or were gifted by the Writing Gods with an uncanny Natural Talent, writing anything will be difficult.
Writing and publishing require determination and commitment to meet your long-term goals. Some days, when impostor syndrome kicks in, when the words don’t come, when you’re met with a sense of futility, it feels like you’ll never succeed. When you’re stuck in the basement, the penthouse seems unreachable.
Lately I’m reminded of “The Changing of the Guard” a 1962 episode of The Twilight Zone.
Donald Pleasence plays Professor Ellis Fowler, a flustered English professor at a college where he feels he makes no significant impact on his students. Near retirement, Professor Fowler is planning on killing himself. He takes one final walk on campus, sadly recalling his supposedly wasted career, when the peal of cathedral’s bells stop him. He finds himself in a classroom surrounded by the ghosts of his students. The ghosts thank Professor Fowler for his inspiration in leading them toward their lofty goals, only to sacrifice themselves for the greater good. The troubled professor realizes that he really did leave an impact on their lives.
In one scene, Professor Fowler flips through an old yearbook and somberly reminisces to his housekeeper Mrs. Landers about his former students:
“They all come and go like ghosts. Faces, names, smiles. The funny things they said or the sad things, or the poignant ones. I gave them nothing. I gave them nothing at all. Poetry that left their minds the minute they themselves left. Aged slogans that were out of date when I taught them. Quotations dear to me that were meaningless to them. I was a failure, Mrs. Landers. An abject, miserable failure. I walked from class to class, an old relic, teaching by rote to unhearing ears, unwilling heads. I was an abject, dismal failure. I moved nobody. I motivated nobody. I left no imprint on anybody. Now, where do you suppose I ever got the idea that I was accomplishing anything?”
This hit me hard, especially with teaching and writing. As a professor, you think the lessons you impart and lectures you give will leave a lasting impact, that your students would retain at least a smattering of information.
Yet it seems they don’t, and stare apathetically at their phones, or wear headphones and zone out during class. It’s like I’m not even there, an invisible relic droning on about writing, my words not getting through.
Writing leaves me with a similar impression. I receive zero feedback from readers, the sales dial barely moves, and I’m exhausted by the whole process. Like Professor Fowler, I’m putting in an effort, only to have my words go unread, my purpose as a writer nullified by a lack of interest.
Sometimes I feel like an abject, dismal failure. Plagued by writer’s block and impostor syndrome, I pin my hopes to a story only to have them dashed by rejection: novels that aren’t read, interviews on podcasts that aren’t heard, readings that nobody attends. Emptiness drains the joy from storytelling.
And joy is why we write.
Writing is supposed to be about more than sitting at a computer and plopping words onto a screen. Writing involves pursuing life with wild abandon, poking your nose into mysteries and embracing new experiences. A writer should be a conduit for an unfettered soul, one unabashedly alive, one in rhythm with their times. If you worry about book sales and a lack of readers, you’ll lose sight of what makes writing special.
I know I’ll never write a bestseller or land an agent or accumulate hundreds of five-star reviews.
And that’s okay.
I showed up. I wrote the books. I got them published. Then I moved on to another story. Sure, I have bad days. I doubt myself. I realize the market isn’t going to genuflect for a 54-year-old indie author who writes horror with weird characters and deep themes.
But quitting isn’t an option.
I’ll continue rowing with the current, going wherever the river takes me. And hopefully dealing with pesky beavers along the way.
THE OCEAN HUGS HARD EDITS ALMOST THERE
Edits for The Ocean Hugs Hard are almost finished. I submit this weighty tome to my publisher in a week. Writing this novel has truly been a wild ride. I started writing Ocean in 2020; it was my pandemic novel as a newly laid-off former journalist. It’s more than a cosmic horror/sunshine noir hybrid; it’s about local journalism, corrupt officials, and how small towns aren’t the quaint utopias as they appear to be.
I’ll reveal the cover on May 24 when preorders go live. The Ocean Hugs Hard is due for a June 24 release.
Eric Avedissian 