Suffering for My Art

By M. Brandon Robbins

I recently had to stop reading The Historian by Elizabeth Kostova. Not because it was a boring read and I was losing interest in it, or because it was severely lacking in literary merit and there were better books to read. Nor was it an unintelligent popcorn thriller like (dare I say it?) The DaVinci Code. And I certainly didn't put it down because it was too dense and unapproachable; the book read like butter goes down your throat.

I stopped reading this critically-acclaimed work because, quite frankly, it was depressing me.

And not because it was dark or sinister; granted, the subject matter was Vlad the Impaler, the Romanian dictator so often associated with the character that made Bram Stoker a very rich man (posthumously at least). And yes, I was audience to chilling scenes often involving blood or a mysterious man wearing black that wasn't there just a second ago but now he's-- GASP!-- right behind the narrator. But The Historian is more Indiana Jones than Freddy Krueger; there was no I-can't-go-on-I-have-to-go-on terror I experienced while reading a work of true horror.

So, secure in the safety of good writing and safe thrills, why was I finding myself depressed by it? Well, the answer is simply complex; you see, the narrative is told from the perspective of three characters spanning three different time periods, and two of those said narrators are graduate students (at least, at the time they narrate-- it's complicated, as I said). And I couldn't bring myself to read about their lives, fictionalized they may be. I swear, if I had to read some variation of "I spent the morning researching, the afternoon writing, met a friend for tea, and then headed out for dinner and coffee before settling in for a night of reading" one more time, I was going to write a letter that started out, "I'm sorry for what I did, I really am. I love my family. I hope you're not angry. It was the only way I could make the pain go away."

Okay, so I wouldn't have committed suicide. Sulked, yes. Went to bed a bit earlier, yes. Made a playlist on my iPod exclusively of depressing songs, yes. Drowned my sorrows in chocolate milk and made them choke on Dove truffles-- well, who needs troubles for that? The long and short of it is, this book was bringing me down in a big way because a life I would give anything to have was being dangled in front of me.

Now, I have no desire to pursue a graduate degree in history such as the main characters of this book. There is nothing that would make spending any amount of time reading on the history of trade between Barely-Findable-On-a-Map and What's-That-Place-Again enjoyable for me. What I was jealous of was that they were still students and I'm not. They get to do what they love all day, and I don't. When they wake up in the morning, they can think about history all day long with no intrusions from silly ideas like customer service or professional standards. They can study, research, write, and play with maps all day. And even though I have no great interest in a future in scientific study, I experience the same emotions when speaking to my friend in graduate school pursuing such a future. He too is entirely focused on playing with his chemistry set and teaching people barely younger than he how to do the same thing. His life is centered on learning; he is doing what he would give anything to do.

I get the same effect when I read Neil Gaiman's blog, or read about the great writing masters of times past. It's one signing tour after another, one meeting over lunch or coffee after another, one public reading, question and answer session, book talk, seminar, or awards ceremony after another. It's wearing your pajamas to work all day before throwing on your sharp black t-shirt and jeans. It's the glamorous life of a rock star with the intellectual stimulation of being a student.

Meanwhile, I work at a public-service job. I'm the low man on the totem pole. I spend eight hours a day doing work that, honestly, I'd rather not be doing. I do have bright moments at work, sometimes every day. But for the most part, I'd rather be writing. I'd rather spend eight hours a day creating universes, whipping out dialogue, and doing character sketches. I'd rather spend my lunch hour at my own table, or at a local restaurant, or stretched out on my sofa napping, instead of in a break room eating frozen dinners.

But alas, it is not to be. I have to work on my writing in my spare time. I have to grab an hour here, fifteen minutes there, work on a paragraph or two when I get the chance. On most days, I fire up my laptop on my lunch break and-- all things considered-- end up having about forty minutes of solid writing time, which is disturbed when well-meaning, cheerful co-workers drop in to chat. I have to go home from work, eat dinner, and then crack open the computer and stay up until whenever-it's-done-o'clock. It's enough to make me wish for a socialist economy, where there is no such thing as student loans that need repaying. That and the whole publicly-funded health insurance thing. You see, I could just quit work and stay home to write, but eventually those pesky medical bills will come due, or I'll need new clothes, or I'll start to miss being able to go out at night at least every once in a while. Not to mention that I really don't want to end up filing for bankruptcy, and I don't think that "I want to write full-time" is a good enough excuse to have my student loans (and all said other expenses) forgiven; at least not for the people receiving my payments.

For college grads holding a business degree, the path to success is easy. Take a job, work hard, impress your superior, apply for higher positions, and move on. Wash, rinse, repeat until you're a millionaire. But when you're in the arts-- writer, painter, sculptor, musician, some odd hybrid of any or all of those or whatever else you might stumble upon along the way-- it's all hit and miss. It's all "let me put this out and see how it goes" and hoping that people want what you're offering. If the business world is like climbing a ladder, then the artistic world is like fishing.

And lately, the fish have been biting. I do some unpaid freelance work where I can keep review materials. My name has been on a few websites and small-press publications. I can actually say "I'm a writer" and mean it. Before February of this year, all I could say was "I write."

But I haven't sunk that lunker yet. I haven't pulled in the big one. I've yet to be published in a hard-copy publication with a wide audience. And it's not for lack of trying. I've had submissions out constantly to various markets, which has led to a long string of rejections. I've gotten form letters and personal letters. I've got recommendations and suggestions and advice. I've gotten encouraging words and anecdotes. Yes, I've enjoyed quite a bit of success in this past year. But I'm still not there. I still punch a time clock at a job that, rewarding and even fun it may be at times, is not what I want to be doing. I still haven't done a single book-signing. I'm still not in graduate school, waking up to teach classes in the morning and work on writing-- perhaps under a nice big tree, or on the patio of a downtown coffee shop-- until it's time for my evening dinner engagement with a fellow student or visiting out-of-town friend.

I haven't even had my picture posted on a work. Those that do read my stuff can't put a face to the name. Of course, it would be nice to have an actual promotional head shot and not just a MySpace-esque self-portrait to use for such a purpose.

And any reminder of that dream is not an encouragement as of late but a harsh and brutal reminder of what I don't have.

But alas, I am an optimist at heart. I always have been. I believe that no matter how bad things get, they have to get better. Call it a defense mechanism.

I'll have that dream job that is "professional writer" one day. I'll be back in school, in an apartment on campus with a desk and a small bed that feels so good when you've been at that desk for eight hours. I just have to keep working on it.

I don't need a long list of published works and a little cabin in the woods where I retreat to work undistracted to be a writer. All I need is passion, drive, an inherent curiosity about all things, a desire to learn, an appreciation of philosophy and the arts, and skill with language and grammar. And one of the difficulties of the writer's life-- not having a map to success drawn out for me-- can be an advantage. That guy in the mail room is going to be there a while; my novel could sell for a grotesque sum tomorrow.

And I, despite the reality if not having everything that comes with it, am enjoying the life of being a writer. I have my hot tea with toast and pumpkin butter in the morning. I go on my daily constitutional in good weather. I visit with friends and spend as much time as I can working on a writing project each day; it's just that I'm also experiencing life as a recent college grad with a degree that doesn't exactly scream "Hey! Look at me! I'm marketable!"

In other words, I have to work a little harder to prove myself because I have to grab somebody's attention as opposed to having attention paid to me as part and parcel of what I do.

There are times when I regret my chosen career path. When there's not as much money in the bank account as I'd like or when I think about how much I'd love my own place, I try to ignore people my own age that work for banks or doctors' offices and seem to be doing quite well for themselves. They may not live with their parents anymore or may drive a respectable car, but they are where they will be forever. That may be fine with them. Me, I like having something to work for other than a higher salary. And every time I think about just climbing the corporate ladder instead of casting my rod, I remember the romantic life of a writer; a life that I refuse to never see.

More than anything, however, it's the writing itself that I can rely on to cure my unhappiness. Every time I think, "Maybe I'll go to bed right after work" or "Maybe I'll just not eat today" or "Maybe I'll go to graduate school-- or even go back for an other undergrad degree-- for something a bit more marketable," I answer those thoughts with two words: "my writing."

If I'm not rested, I can't think. If I'm hungry, I can't focus. If I take on a degree not relative to my writing, my writing will take a back seat. And I can't let that happen; I've made too much progress. Not to mention the fact that I wrote long before I got paid for it; there is something about sitting down in front of a blank screen or sheet of paper and watching a story take shape that is a bit like raising a child or building a Lego castle; when it's done you can sit back and say "How lovely," content in that you have done something that was good for your soul and just might make somebody else smile one day. Give that feeling up just to make money? I would have to turn in my copy of Stephen King's On Writing if I made such a career decision.

So I will continue writing and continuing dreaming. I may even pick up The Historian again, or call up my friend that's in grad school, or read some famous author's blog. After all, suffering makes for great art.

M. Brandon Robbins is a graduate of Goldsboro High School and holds a B.A. in English from Mount Olive College. He has been published on WomenGamers.com and LibraryJournal.com as well as having work in the Olive Branch, his alma mater's literary journal, and having short fiction forthcoming in Down in the Dirt magazine. His latest accomplishment is the online poetry chapbook "A Party with the Grim Reaper" which can be viewed at http://scars.tv. When not writing or reading, he enjoys playing video games, watching movies, listening to music, and consuming foods of the pumpkin and chocolate variety.

Sponsored links

Ring binders

 

Make a Real Living as a Freelance Writer!

How to find a book publisher

Home

Text on this site Copyright © 1998-2007 Absolute Write, all rights reserved.
Please contact the authors if you'd like to reprint articles on this site.  All copyrights are retained by original authors.  And plagiarizers will be rounded up, handcuffed, and stuck into a very small and humid room wherein they must listen to Barney sing the "I Love You, You Love Me" song over and over again.

writers writing software