An Introduction

[jackshoegazer]

I don't exactly understand why, but my last assignment for my Intro to Lit class was to write an open letter to the class, describing my career as a writer thus far in my life.  Below the cut is my letter.

 

Dear Class,

 

            My name is Jeremy John Parker and I am a writer, an author, a provocateur of words, providing the drug of choice to the literati.  My career is a long and relatively unsuccessful one, but a career nonetheless.

            Like many milestones in my life, I do not remember learning to read and write.  I don’t remember when I started shaving and I don’t remember when I learned the horrible truth about Santa Clause and his mythical brethren.  I do remember that when I arrived in kindergarten, I already knew how to read.  I was further advanced than most of my classmates, many of whom spent much of their time learning their letters.  I took this time to read under a stairwell on a beanbag, the words illuminated by a haphazardly-filled Lite-Brite.

            I never took my writing seriously until the fourth grade.  It was that year our class was given an assignment to write a story about an occasion in which we helped our parents.  I told the hilarious tale of the time my parents were both down with the flu and I attempted to make them macaroni and cheese – ‘attempted’ being the key word.  Most amusingly, I forgot to drain the water from the noodles before I added the cheese, and much to my chagrin, this did not make a lovely cheese soup, but a disgusting, watery mess.  Our teacher sent these stories to the local newspaper and the three best were published.  Mine was one of those three.  My first publication, my first taste of literary fame, and not a word of it was true.

            In seventh grade, I decided to spread my wings and tackle something much grander than a mere short story.  I decided to write a horror novel.  I told the tale of Max, whose narrowly escaped his serial-killing teacher, who was systematically murdering her students.  The teacher was killed in the confrontation with police, but the story didn’t end there.  Her bereaved brother attempted to raise her from the dead by summoning a demon.  The demon possessed her and went on a rampage, trying to kill Max and his father, who just happened to be the police officer who had shot the teacher.  I don’t remember the ending and I so wish I still had that story somewhere.

            My next taste of literary fame came during my junior year of high school.  In a creative writing class, we had to enter a radio contest wherein you write a story about how you lost a favorite CD and if they read your story on the air, you win that CD.  My story was the first one picked and the DJ read my harrowing tale of a group of friends listening to music on a portable stereo late at night on a railroad bridge in rural Wisconsin, partaking in activities of questionable legality.  We were young and out well past curfew.  Some concerned citizen must have complained about the noise because the police arrived, lights flashing, sirens blazing, and began to chase us.  We narrowly escaped, but the stereo was left behind.  The next day, we returned to find that the stereo had been hit by a train and smashed to bits.  I had won again, my writing chosen over all others, and again, not a word of it was true.

            From there on, I have concentrated on my writing as a career.  I have written much and published little, more from laziness than anything else.  I’ve had a few poems published in little magazines and anthologies, but nothing really to brag about.  My first literary novel, Complex Psyche, sits on my desk, half-way through its fifth edit.  I call this publisher-block, which is much like writer’s block, except I just keep putting off sending it out.  One more edit, I keep saying, but there it sits.  Every time I re-read it, I think of how juvenile it sounds, and how much of a better writer I am now, and at times I think it doomed to obscurity, like many first novels.  I have plans and outlines for several more, but my first weighs on me.  I feel like I can’t work on another until I get rid of the first, like the birth of quintuplets, one at a time, my body says.

            That, dear Class, is my career as a writer thus far.  If this route to successful novelist does not pan out, I will follow the old adage about those who can’t do and I will teach students how to succeed where I have failed and I will jealously pine over their triumphs, green with the foulest envy.  Just kidding.

 

Sincerely,

 Jeremy J. Parker

Comments

[luvluvg.livejournal.com]

That was really good. I want to read your novel!

[jackshoegazer.livejournal.com]

Thanks. My next one, maybe :)

[ohsochewy.livejournal.com]

Heh. I think you're probably past the self-edit stage on your novel by now :)

Keep on keepin' on!

[shortcakeness.livejournal.com]

*blinks* i used to read in my closet via lite-bright...

[jackshoegazer.livejournal.com]

I actually had a former editor for a Tor imprint read it and she loved it - said it was the best thing she'd read the whole time she worked there. I just need to finish this last edit, which is just for formatting purposes and then I'll get the bastard out the door, like a 30-year old child still living in my basement.

[kiwikat.livejournal.com]

You liar!

Writing is a lot like art in that the longer it is since I've finished a piece the less I want to show it to anyone. I look at my old work and I feel like I'm so much better now that I might as well get rid of older things. When I want to go to galleries and hang things I wish I had more art from NOW and less from a year ago because after a week or two I usually find my old stuff vaguely embarrassing.

I think it's just the nature of the beast though. Writing and art give us really honest, brutal feedback about our current skills. The best you can do at any given time is the best you can do.

I think you'd do yourself a disservice if you put off writing your next book because you can't seem to finish the old one. Maybe it's time for that book to sink or swim in the big mean waters of publishing. You wrote the best novel you could a few years ago. Since then you've learned a great deal and I bet you could write one that blows it clear out of the water.

Sometimes I'll work on a painting for months, really agonize over it, redo bits, try to work it out and get it just right. But eventually I sometimes give up on a painting, or at least put it aside for a long time. If it doesn't work it just doesn't work, and it will end up holding me back from what I really want to do if I let it.

[jackshoegazer.livejournal.com]

this last edit is just for formatting and that's why I can't bring myself to work on it much - sooooooo boring. Once it's done, it's out of here - like a 30 year-old child living in the basement!

Read the Wikipedia page for Michael Chabon, particularly the bit about his second novel.

[kiwikat.livejournal.com]

Formatting is a lot like writing technical documents for work. Booooooring. Blech.

I agree with Michael Chabon! If you don't like your project you must find a new project. : D