Thoughts on 30
By Tom Waters
I said once that
I’d give up writing for good if I didn’t "make it" by the time I turned 30. How
truly bullheaded and foolish that was. Threatening myself with the possibility
of giving up a lifelong labor of love is practically impossible, and why I would
even want to give it up is beyond me. The funny thing is that the plan worked.
An empty threat turned into a driving motivation and my writing "career" is
clicking into place almost effortlessly. It’s a bit scary to get what you
want. It’s as if the publishing world has started to take me seriously all
of a sudden. If a memo was sent out, it would have been nice if I received a carbon
copy. The behavioral shift happened when I came out of my last block. I
figured it was time to stop messing around and treat it like a job. For too
many years, I felt that it was a well-publicized hobby. Now it’s a career.
The new company motto is "no time left for blocks." If I’m going to make an
imprint in letters, if I’m going to get anywhere with my writing, if I want to
make as many people laugh and contemplate a point of view that they normally
wouldn’t give the time of day to as I can, I need to get down to business. I
don’t give a whit about fortune and glory anymore. It’s hollow and it’s a side
effect of success. I don’t care about adoration or personal celebrity. My
priorities have changed. I played the media darling during my first book, and it
got old. It didn’t suit me. Then I went underground and worked on pulling
strings behind the scenes so that I was a less visible target to my enemies,
detractors, and opponents in local journalism. That paved the way for a whole
new persona. After that I befriended the important people and treated them with
respect, especially when they pissed me off. That was a good step towards
becoming a freelancing professional. Courtesy in the workplace, especially if
your workplace is an ever-changing concept where you don’t meet up at the
proverbial water cooler with your immediate superiors.
And a new phase
appears. Not that of a grizzled veteran or a young upstart, but a writer
hitting his stride. I used to think that I had a definitive writing voice. I
realize now that I was aping my heroes. Going back through some of my essays
during college, it was patently obvious. Dennis Miller, Denis Leary, and Andy
Rooney pop up in the occasional paragraph. Along with another, tinier voice.
My own. This last run of work feels true, genuine, and sincere. It took almost
twenty years, but I’ve found my voice. For a few years I intentionally peppered
my essays with fifty-cent words, thumbing through a thesaurus during the
planning stages of any manifesto. Those days are gone. After that, I dumbed my
work down to try and reach a larger audience. In doing both, I violated my
prime directive: The only way to write effective humor is if it is effortless.
I can always tell when comedians or writers are trying too hard, forcing the
laughs. It’s a Zen thing. Certainly, editing and proofreading and re-tooling
are essential, but that all comes after the blind tear of initially setting the
words down. Most people’s favorite essays from my books are the ad-libbed rants
that fell onto the page. There’s something to be learned from that.
I used to think that there was nothing worth writing if I wasn’t being funny. I
was wrong. If you don’t work through the dark bits, exorcise the demons raging
about inside, and work it out of your system, you’ll never get to the funny
stuff. And surprisingly, some of the exorcisms turn out to be entertaining. I
used to think that I’d run out of ideas and opinions and that I had a finite
amount of stories locked away inside. That was wrong, too. Sam Walton of all
people said, "If you think you can, you can, and if you think you can’t, you
can’t." I’m reminded of a study I once read about faith healers. The ones who
believed that the power was internal burnt out after a while, but the ones who
subscribed to the notion that their talents were external (higher power, Great
Gazoo, etc.) continued to work their magic well into their golden years.
I’ve reached a point where the ideas won’t stop and there’s a small part of
everything in life to celebrate, poke fun at, and challenge the notion of. I
patiently write down some thumbnail sketches for essays or projects in my
notebook and wait to see which ones blossom. Sometimes I run straight to the
computer to take part in a wild tear for eight pages with modest results. And
other times some of those ideas grow in the interim until they turn into the
sprawling three-month beasts that practically drain the life out of me. I’m
proud of all of them. The process has changed. It’s evolved in its own
Darwinian beauty. By natural selection, I’m pretty sure that the blocks have
been weeded out of my genetic code for writing. There’s too much to do and such
precious little time left to do it.
A friend warned me
about turning 30 and in doing so, started the chain reaction. I’ve had trouble
sleeping all summer. I’ve looked back at everything I’ve done and haven’t
gotten around to doing and realize that the meter is running whether we make use
of it or not. It’s time to get moving. With my current lifestyle, I’ll be
charmed or simply bullheaded if I make it to 70, so for all intents and purposes
I’m at the halfway point. There’s no time left to spare, and the meter is doing
double time. There’s acceleration to everyone’s pace of life that's attributed
to responsibilities, duties, and hobbies. Less time to get things done with
more things to do. I’m not a whiner, so I just made more time and worked harder
with the time I have. I’ve put out three books and the fourth is finished and
ready for takeoff. I’m going to sit on it until its successor is halfway to
completion. I’ve made a lot of mistakes, and I pray that I’ve learned from most
of them. I’ve made a lot of influential contacts and working relationships in
the business and tried desperately to hang on to them through an air of
professionalism, a track record of success, and a dedication to making deadline
no matter what is going on. That’s crucial.
Most writers make their entrance from stage right by the time they’re 30. They
announce themselves with grandiose fanfare to their readers and bust onto the
scene with seasoned wit and a warehouse full of experiences to draw upon. I
tried really hard to get there ahead of time, but there’s a reason why that rule
rings true. It was impossible for my editors to tell me that I needed to grow
up and learn by mistake. That I wouldn’t be taken seriously until I earned it.
Some things you can’t cheat your way through, buy your way into, or take the
short cut to get to. It’s all clicked into place, and just in time, at that.
The panic of just how much time I don’t have left is what set the wheels into
motion, too.
I just want to make people laugh and think at the same time. As many people as
I can get to. I want my grandchildren to be proud of me without having to pull
out a steamer trunk of keepsakes to prove that I did something with my life.
Laughter has made the world go round for me. It’s taken the sting out of some
of the worst moments in my life and helped me to move on during other moments.
For all the dark, twisted, sad, messed up times I’ve had (and there have been
more than a few), laughter keeps me sane. It helps me make sense of a world
that’s almost too hard to grasp on a day to day basis. Life is a joke where you
don’t get the punch line until after the show. It’s assumed. You’re just
supposed to go along with the joke on blind faith and soldier through. And I’m
okay with that.
I had the good fortune to talk to some of my heroes and predecessors over the
last couple of months. People that I looked up to over the years as "capital A"
artists, who achieved financial security while they uncompromisingly scripted
their fantasies, nightmares, and ground breaking theorems. I was thrilled to do
it but at the same time I wished that it never happened. That I could go back
and throw the lock onto Pandora’s box again. In my mind, they’d fallen from
that great big pedestal I’d set them on. They plummeted to the earth and became
human for me. They were accessible, and that took some of the magic away for
me. Seeing the humanity in your heroes is most likely another natural process
of growing up, and it’s like a tiny death for me. Mike Carey is one of those
heroes. He’s a British comic writer and an Oxford graduate I’ve idolized and
re-read for years. Since the interview, we correspond occasionally and he’s
kind enough to offer his advice and guidance about the ascent to literary
success, something that he’s achieved ten times over. It’s bittersweet to gain
that kind of rapport with your heroes. It had to happen. Bringing them down to
earth helped me to finally find my own voice.
And what of the rest of my life? It’s not enough. I haven’t done enough. Not
yet. Not by a long shot. Harlan Ellison said that writing was the lifelong
process of setting pen to paper and reporting in to the world that this was
where you were and this was how you felt that day. In so many words. Ellison
is brilliant sometimes and mediocre other times, but goddamn, he’s consistent.
If you weighed in every thing he’s written for every paper, publishing house,
and magazine, his contribution would clock in at well over three tons. His
influence is unmistakable in speculative fiction, and you’ve probably never
heard of him. He was a giant in the ’60s and ’70s and his legend is fading,
which isn’t right.
I wonder sometimes
about the Darwinian process and libraries. Take a look at the wealth of books
out on the market right now and try to imagine which ones will make the cut a
hundred years from now, or two hundred years from now. Stephen King will
definitely make the grade. And Michael Crichton, Tom Clancy. Who else? Ayn
Rand, Robert Heinlein, Ray Bradbury, J.R.R. Tolkien, Ernest Hemingway, ee
cummings, C.S. Lewis, John Steinbeck, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Roald Dahl, John
Irving, John Updike, Raymond Chandler, and if they’re lucky, a handful of
others. Writers in the long haul are up against the mercy of book buyers,
schools' required reading lists, and the probability of their work being
optioned as a major motion picture. That, and the sands of time. It’s a rigged
game and nothing can be done about it. Odds are that there were a lot more
writers published in the time of Shakespeare, the days of Dickens, or the era of
Emerson, but they faded away through the centuries. Lost forever. Great minds
with greater ideas that people just stopped reading for one reason or another.
I don’t give a whit about financial success anymore. Popularity during my
lifetime would be nice, but it’s not a deal breaker. I just want to make the
cut.
How can any of us beat those odds, though? Consistency. Volume. Intensity.
I’ve always been a fan of singer-songwriters who get their work in like
machines. Bob Dylan, Stevie Wonder, Elton John, and to some extent, even
Prince. They’re not always great, but they’re always there, and if you look at
the overall body of work they’ve accomplished in one lifetime, it's what would
take most people generations to achieve. The same goes for writers. If you
don’t have a body of work, the odds are a lot more doubtful that you’ll survive
post mortem, which is a goal all of us are reluctant to admit is the most
important one. I want someone to remember me by my works after I’m gone. I’ll
probably have children some day, and their children will have children, but the
family line won’t last forever. Strong words echo through the years with more
resonance and resiliency than genetics.
I’m already living my dream. I’ve got regular work with two local papers, two
websites, and a string of other one-offs for specialty magazines and papers.
I’ve got three books out and my reputation is beginning to precede me. It’s not
an ego thing anymore, it’s an accomplishment thing. A measuring stick to figure
out how much I still need to do. Consistent work is a goal for any freelance
writer. Now that I’ve got that, a regular paycheck from the same would be
really nice. We’ll get there. I’m not concerned about it. And now the young
upstarts are coming to me asking for advice. How do you get from there to
here? Work your ass off. Treat it like a full time job and don’t stop and
never look back unless you’re writing about it. Work like you’ve never worked
before. This can either be an idle hobby or it can be the most grueling,
thankless, ball busting, never ending chore you’ve ever taken to task. Don’t
ever stop. And don’t ever mutter the word "block" because it’s an indulgence
that you won’t have the time for if you seriously want to get anywhere with it.
When I was in high school, I hunted and pecked and eventually started properly
typing out my essays at the speed of sloth. In college, I got a computer and
messed around with a variety of fonts and sizes to pretty up my work before I
turned it in to my editor. Then around the age of 24 I started using notebooks
whenever an idle idea drifted down through the wreckage so that I could catch it
before it went away. I try to keep my antennae up for stray ideas. If you
don’t entertain them they’ll go away. Give them some room and they’ll invite
their friends for a brainstorming party. I read a lot about dreams when I was a
teenager and unless you train yourself to remember them they disappear. The
same standard applies to the process of writing. Stay alert and pay your ideas
the amount of respect they deserve or they won’t bother you. At the same time
you need to hold them at bay once they’re captured and take your time with
them. I was an idiot to think that I’d run out of things to say, topics to
complain about or issues to celebrate. What I will run out of is time to say
them.
One of the most life-altering changes I made with my life and my writing was
cutting back on my drinking. For a while there, it came first. It’s been said
that poets are drinkers with writing problems. Funny that. I drank every day
(always after work or on days off so that it didn’t feel like the problem it
was), on and off for about eight years. There were stops and starts and
journeys on and off the wagon, and eventually, I woke up one morning and found
myself thoroughly sick of the routine. Don’t get me wrong, I love to drink. I
still write bar reviews and hang out with the boys twice a week. Oftentimes
when I’m on vacation I’ll go on a blind bender. But the emphasis has changed.
I came to the stunning conclusion that I could either drink the rest of my life
away and write complete dreck during my more cogent moments or get back in
control of my life and attempt to do something worthwhile with it. It’s a demon
I keep close at hand, but I know where my boundaries are. Spending most of my
nights sober has enriched the quality and quantity of my writing in ways I could
have never imagined.
Coming to grips
with my bipolar disorder has helped immeasurably as well. Again, it’s a matter
of control. That, too, has taken more than a decade to grab the reins on.
Triggers and stressors had to be discovered and examined. Agitators had to be
removed. As long as I keep an internal barometer of my sleep patterns,
substance use of any kind, and the levels of stress that I dump onto myself in
one ton payloads, I’ll be all right. There has been nary a flare up since I was
26 and decided to stop taking medication of any kind. I’ve gone to
psychologists on and off over the years and it has been helpful but the
professionals and I have come to the conclusion that there’s no better therapy
for me than exorcising my demons slowly and methodically on paper.
Here I am two weeks away from the big milestone. I’ve spent the last ten years
of my life obsessing, worrying, and planning for this. When you turn 21 it’s
the beginning of the party years. I was stupid as only the young are capable of
being stupid. In my mid-20s, I struggled with a lot of identity issues and came
to terms with who I was, what kind of person I wanted to be, and where I wanted
to go in my life. Bret Easton Ellis said that people’s lives actually do play
out in three acts. He was right. Life imitates art, and there’s a three tiered
arc to everyone’s passage through this world and on to the next. With the onset
of my 30th birthday ahead, I’m finally shifting into second gear. If it’s
anything like the first, it’s going to be a bumpy ride that’s well worth the
price of admission.
A bit wiser,
Tom Waters
Dedicated to
Mike Carey, for his friendship, guidance, and infectious workaholism.
Tom Waters' third and latest collection, First
Person, Last Straw is available from Authorhouse. He lives and freelances
far too often for his own good in Buffalo, NY. His next humor collection, If
They Can't Take a Joke is already finished. He's just waiting diabolically.
