Undying Writer’s Death

Writers. They are everywhere. Aspiring, working, dreaming, struggling. The world envisions writers as authors of books, writers of screenplays, journalists for newspaper articles. Names of people. In black and white type. It is the purpose of this neophyte writer to tell the world what is the truth about the profession.

A writer is never pictured as a June Cleave in full-skirted dresses, twirling around a room, with a feather-duster in her hand, as she brainstorms another chapter of the Great American Novel. The portrait is more colorless, dreary…and lifeless. A writer’s existence is about death, life, and hope. But the road to an undying death is one less-traveled, to be sure. Why? A writer often has to be willing to experience pain and poverty, to complete his mission: to die to carry his message.

They exist. The great writers of all times existed in a suspended time-zone as they were creating. How do I know? I just sense it. Picture the following: the tired, bedraggled writer slumped over his typewriter [okay, slumped over a computer keyboard today with the monitor screen reflecting a blue-green light on his face] after a long, fruitless night of rough drafts, discarded ideas, numb thoughts, wadded-up papers, and an ashtray of stale cigarette butts. Several old cups, half-filled with cold coffee, which leave evaporating rings of now-black fluid, complete the painting of a writer’s desktop. What drives him to live a life like this, day after day….week after week? (Understand that this scenario does not apply to all in the profession. And please further understand I’ve used the pronoun “he” to denote either gender for sexist simplicity.)

A writer struggles. He may often be hooked on some of life’s numbing agents, such as alcohol, drugs, food, sick relationships, cigarettes—to name a few of the more obvious. He is unorganized—with journals, books, articles, resource materials, and numerous miscellaneous paper that are necessary to his craft, but a fire-trap. Obviously, from the piles of many books, when not writing himself, he reads a lot.

My portrait is not finished. There are the multitude of rejection slips that mark the failed attempts of trying to share his efforts with the world,; hopes and failures at a life that is worth cherishing, are stillborn. Who are they, the publishes? This power-base of laypeople with xeroxes of “We really enjoyed reading this, but…” can squelch the breath of life out of the writer. And what do they know? Who can censor mankind’s fundamental purpose and attempt to help and share with one another? regardless, man invented editors and publishes to place limitations on the time and costs spent in the education and empowerment of the human race.

A few more finishing brush-strokes are needed before I add color to this picture. The psychiatrists; notebooks are full of psychotic episodes, and emotional disorders and behavioral dysfunctions in the lives of the people in this profession. The stereotyped image of the aspiring writer in keeping with the sepia-toned portrait has trouble with relationship with others, maybe never had children, and has hopeless feelings of being tormented or tortured. they keep journals, or bundles of lost love-letters that inspired the great novels. It is disheartening to come to the realization that the writer sometime (not always) has to sacrifice his own “life” for the somewhat unlikely stillbirth of his perhaps still embryonic manuscript.

It’s time to add color to this dismal sketch, before the colors on my palette dry. And there are colors to be seen. A writer may keep a journal about his perception of his life. This journal can serve several purposes: as self-help or therapy; to get one’s feelings on paper for examination. Or they may serve as a basis for an article, essay, poem or short-story. Sometimes it was from experiences for some, that the writer drew upon to write/create his works of art.

A writer my fabricate a story about something he would wish to be living. the characters, the plot, the scenes are “dreamt-up”. Such fiction can be entertaining. Stories such as these make very good screenplays, where Emmys and Tony awards are won for acting, special effects, sound, etc. They are written with the intent to “appeal to the masses.” So the writer has to make the decision as to whether or not he wants to create make-believe, a fairytale, or a story about how spiritual life triumphs over physical death.

One often hears of “writer’s cramp.” “writer’s block,” and similar phrases used in relation to difficulty in transferring a jumbled thought pattern in an organized context onto a piece of white paper in any acceptable method. My point: a layperson even has recognition of some of the “pain” that a writer my experience in practicing his craft. A writer rarely is well-to-do, unless he’s written maybe several books and is well-known and respected in his field. A writer struggles to pay his bills. They often do not place a lot of emphasis on living quarters, living conditions, clothes, cars or even their physical appearance. The wealth they have is their willingness to keep at “it” until they are satisfied that they have completed their mission.

A writer’s profession is directed by the workings of the soul, yet not always necessarily administered by the workings of the ego. The following process is a viewpoint of the cycle of the purpose of a writer in our lifetime:

1) Writer lives death/pain in life.

2) Writer share this by writing about it.

3) Written piece is published.

4) If it is fiction-a fairytale life is created for the reader.

5) If it is non-fiction, the writer gives hope to the reader, or reports horror..

6) Either may be/is the experiences of the writer.

7) Writer physically dies.

8) Writer’s soul/memory has eternal life through the writing that lives on [yet may not be read].

A writer may or may not come to the above deductive conclusion as to his reason to be what he is, and to die trying until what he set out to do is completed. He may never know if he really ever accomplishes his goal—the rewards are extrinsically few. From his heart, the writer my feel that he gave it his all: his story – from his soul – through his fingers – and onto a manuscript and on to the publishing house. His writer-ego is satisfied by royalty checks. His writer-soul will never really know the impact on mankind of his selfless portrayal of Life; with all of the sacrifices and disappointments.

But he left a little bit of himself behind…just how many hearts his memory touches, he will never know. But he tried. Then died.

Return to Ponderings Home Page