A Frantic Spirit

Writers are a sordid lot. They're also a sorted lot. (I love words like that.) It seems that all writers and artists are on the same mental plain or if you're so inclined, on the same mental "plane", flying in the same direction to the same destination. When their creative spirit flows, art is created. Those who live without this creative streak say things like, "This is an inspired work" or "Where do they come up with such ideas?"

To the writer or artist, such ideas and creations are as much of a surprise to them as they are to the observing public. We don't know where it comes from, we are simply compelled to paint it, chisel it or write it. If we don't, we feel our heads might explode from the idea growing and pressing against our brain.

This is why I'm writing this post. My head is not threatening to burst with ideas. It's already done that and I have 4 1/2 novels and countless short stories to prove it. My problem is the fact that I can't share my stories with the world. I can't find an agent or publisher, which would be my vein or channel to the world. My spirit is feeling frantic to have a writing CAREER.

People say, "You already have a writing career. You're writing, aren't you? Then you have a career." It's not like that, folks. Now that I've gotten my inspiration on paper and it's honed and ready for public consumption, I have no place to put it.

Here's a good analogy: Imagine yourself standing on a pillar of rock. This pillar of rock is at least ten stories tall and you're surrounded by the chasms of the Grand Canyon. On your pillar, you have approximately enough room to sit down, but no more. In your arms you hold all of the things that are nearest and dearest to your heart. Piled high in your two little arms you have your children, your spouse, your college degree, your photo albums, your skis or your treadmill (whatever floats your boat) and you're carrying them all gingerly and with great care, holding them as close to heart as possible. Suddenly, you have to pee. What do you do? Where can you set your things down? You turn in circles on your little pillar of rock. Beads of anxious sweat begin to trickle down your brow and your precious things have suddenly become very heavy. No one can hold your precious thing for you and you can't set them down. If you give in and take care of business as it were, you have no choice but to drop your most precious possessions into the great chasm, never to be seen again. As Keanu Reeves said in Speed, "What do you do?"

This is how my spirit is feeling. I'm frantically dashing around the literary planet saying, "Can you help me with this?" "Excuse me, do you have a home for this story?" "Pardon me, I'm sorry to bother you, but would you possibly be interested in publishing my work? I have lots more where that came from." I've gotten to the point where I just want to scream, "Heeeeyyyy! I'm a damn good writer. Publish me or point me to someone who can!!"

I can see you now: giving your computer monitor a wary leer as you contemplate just how mentally unstable I am. You may be on to something there, but I am in no way certifiable. I'm just getting older. I'm running out of time to achieve my dreams and my stories aren't doing anyone any good gathering dust in my proverbial drawer. They are homeless stories, without a voice, without an adoptive family. I am merely a catalyst, a foster home for these stories. I need someone to give my stories wings. If my stories never learn to fly, I will never fly and I'm feeling the pressure.

I'm writing this post against my better judgment. I feel that blogs of professional subjects should remain just that: professional, but according to Neil Gaiman, you should speak from the heart in your blogs. Let the world see you. I hold a lot of respect for Mr. Gaiman, so I'm taking his advice and giving you a glimpse of my own frantic writer's spirit.

We writers are a sordid lot; a sordid, sordid lot. *sigh*