If I should Die
Songwriters write hundreds of songs in their lifetimes; poets pen thousands of emotions. Lyrics spin from their minds and pen because they must, must, must be given to the world. Artists paint, composers create, playwrights play, writers write … it’s a compulsion. They don’t stop at one or two, do they?
Why then do some people keep up the elitist maxim of writers who only produce one or two works in their lifetime as being ‘better’ or more worthy or literary [as opposed to …]?
Writers write.
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In order to learn your craft, any craft, you DO it consistently, learn as you go. A mentor can only tell you so much, show you so much before they say “Go forth and Do,” and if you don’t do that, you’re an imposter. A fraud.
In the modern world, a one-story writer is trodden under the mud of millions. A one-story writer will never be found, even if the story is good. Even a five or ten story writer isn’t going to get far if they don’t do the other things writers need to do. It’s a profession, and as a professional, a writer needs to output enough work to be noticed, improve their skills enough to be taken seriously, and keep producing. It doesn’t stop at one or two. It’s not an elite art open to only those who ‘deserve’ it because [go on, name it].
I wear my heart on my sleeve, and as such people know where to stab to hurt me. Or so they think. Taking a stab at my work isn’t going to kill me, but when the words they say are said to put others off the path of this journey of writing, I’m going to get my back up.
It happened again. Every day there’s someone who writes it. The best of the best only do one or two great things, they say. History will remember their name, they say. Nothing new is worthy, they say. See that pic up there? He was lambasted for his heresy of the craft.
My response is usually one of two things: So, because you did one (or two) and then gave up, you’ll be the one remembered by history? Or: go away, naysayers not welcome (maybe said in a not-so-nice manner).
Any person who wants to be a writer will look to learning the craft. Any person who wants to call themselves a writer must be willing to put their words out to the public. The only way to learn the craft is to do the work, over and over and over, until … the end (death, that is).
And when I die, and all my stories are unpublished (yes, it’s in my will), I will be one of the millions of forgotten writers because I don’t care for posterity. I care about now.
Because the people they are for will have them, and that’s what it’s about. I’m not writing for posterity, riches, fame or literary acclaim. These stories are for certain people. I don’t mind if other people (or other beings) read them, but they were written for a particular audience and I know they’ll have their copies.
And I’m happy to help other writers learn the craft. It’s part of being a professional. I can learn as much from helping others as I can from a mentor. One day, I hope some of those I worked with will become masters of their craft. I’d like that just as much as I’d like one of my kids to become successful at something they chose.
Remember this: in order to learn your craft, any craft, you DO it consistently, learn more with each item you produce; it’s the ten thousand hour adage:
Malcolm Gladwell
10,000 Hours of Practice. In the book Outliers , author Malcolm Gladwell says that it takes roughly ten thousand hours of [deliberate and purposeful] practice to achieve mastery in a field.
A mentor can only tell you so much, show you so much before they say “Go forth and Do,” and if you don’t do that, you’re an imposter. A fraud.
So, to those of you who said it, this is my response. I hope it makes you sneeze for a week.
