Well, that sort of hit the nail right on the head for me. I guess you could say I'm that writer, but at the tail end of it all. I'm the result of what happens when you give up on yourself, and as a result, your dreams. I'm 64 at this moment. I plan to retire in January after working for 45 years at the same job. (It's a sawmill out here in the Vancouver {Canada} area.) I started writing a long time ago. I had dreams and aspirations of being another Oliver Goldsmith. A book, a play, a poem. I wrote the poem. It was a narrative ballad of Robin Hood that ended up being 212 pages when I self published it in 1977. I started writing the book when I was 28 (pre computer/internet days) I wrote three different versions of it. It was 325,000 words. Too long, I know. The play, well, I started that last year. I decided to make it iambic pentameter, just for the challenge.
And what happened?
Well, I started working at the mill. I got distracted with sex, drugs and rock and roll. I slipped into the vortex--fell into the rabbit hole so to speak. I got married, had kids, bought a house and went through six or seven strikes...bottom line: Life. Sometimes it gets in the way of our dreams.
I never gave up on my writing, though. I managed, once the computer age caught up to me, to try again. I was able to publish some stories on line, but was never able to break the paywall, so to say. And I have some pretty good stories. Problem with that? Too long...again. But I like long stories. (Alice Munro is my goddess.) I guess what I'm trying to say, is that sometimes it takes some of us a little longer to get our shit together. I've got mine together...finally. I started a SUBSTACK, because it was something I could do on my terms. I can put my stories up and if people want to read them, they can. I don't have a lot of followers, but I don't let that bother me, either. They will come if the writing is good enough to draw them in. I think it is. And that's all that matters.
The subject of the letter will eventually get his shit together, as well. When you want to write, it doesn't matter who you write for; it doesn't matter if you're the only one reading them. I realized, after all those years, that I never tried hard enough because I didn't believe in myself enough.
I think we can all relate. I was just discussing something with a friend yesterday that the letter writer and his friend reminded me of: the value of having people around you with common interests. For me, that's one of the main things I get out of Story Club. Thanks for being here, friends.
I love this notion that we are exactly who we are and that our energy will radiate in some way regardless of whether we are writing or not. What a calming way to think of what we are doing here, on this earth. i barely write anymore, though others kindly encourage me. George's words help me relax into the knowledge that what i may want to say through my writing is being said through my daily actions. We are all verbs, all of the time.
One little thing that may or not be of interest to the friend: I wrote an entire book by only writing on Fridays. It was the only day i had, being a mother, wife, community member, and public school employee. i had my 'office,' which was a certain chair in the local library, and that's where i wrote each Friday until finally i had a book. So, it can be done. (On the other days of the week, i daydreamed about my eventual book, and everything I saw or heard or read became fodder for my Friday sessions. So i was never really away from the writing. Just away from my keyboard.)
Lastly, encouragement to write from others does me no good. Either i want to write or i don't. So while appreciate the faith that friends and family have in me to produce something again, their words go right out the window and I'm always happy to change the subject. One day, i will write again, when I'm ready. (i did write one short story this past year and I'm inordinately proud of it, though i haven't sent it out yet.)
George, i'm so happy that you are home.
(ps the left-side shift key stopped working on my keyboard, so there are capitals missing here, now and into the future until this computer drops dead.)
When my daughter was a teenager I took her to the Art Students League in the city. She has a language processing disorder & ADD but she discovered her language with pens and paper and paint. She took a print making class something she’d never done before. I’d go in with her & wait in the hall as she worked. We got to know one of the professors there, a painter who recently passed. My d wanted to go to art school for college so I asked this man his advice. He said, “If you can talk her out of it, do it. If you can’t then you must support her all the way.”
I’ve never forgot his sage wisdom that I followed despite knowing how terribly difficult a life in art is. How do you pay the bills? Not everyone is a Cindy Sherman or a Hockney.
I love what GS says in this post – that not everyone has to be a writer. I’d add or a painter, sculptor, actor. I think you do have to be compelled. Compelled by something inside that pushes to get out.
For myself, I know what GS says if you step away then the creativity will find its way into something else. I almost stopped writing this year but I didn’t stop my improv group. In fact, I added another one run by an improvisor who’s a reader & loves language. He talks about our word inventory in scenes & through his deep attention to the words we choose and speak to one another in scenes it reignited my desire for words. That and Story Club. I purposely subscribed because I felt myself falling away from the lovely “flow” of writing so I said to myself, “Well, hang around GS & the writers and readers in his club.”
Have I written anything new? No. I went back to stories I wasn’t happy with and edited them. I have four I’m playing with now. One I finalized & sent it out. I got my first acceptance of 2022! The title of it is “Stand in Line.” It’s something one of my mentors said to me/us about writing/submitting: “Stand in line long enough, and you’ll be served.”
It's true but it’s also true that stepping away, doing something completely different, getting the fix somewhere else sharpens & readies us for the return, which is oddly what GS writes about today. I guess it’s always that way. Recharging ourselves for the new undertaking.
Thanks for the post and to the questioner about his friend (It really is great advice to have him give his friend the letter; they’re blessed to have each other).
George, I so appreciate that you don't reiterate the well-worn "to be a writer you must write every day" advice that so can so easily make an aspiring writer feel "less than," when in fact, they already are -- not aspiring, but, a writer.
I do think -- assuming life is fodder -- it's important to live a little, too.
Taking a moment here to absorb the beauty of this post. Thanks to both the person who posted that plea on behalf of a friend and to you George for your humanity.
"'Well, nothing lasts forever, including obstructions. I guess this obstruction is going to be a part of my, uh, journey--part of what I hope will someday be a happy, even triumphal, story of a victory of sorts (and this is true even if that victory includes deciding not to be a writer.)"
Quitting as a form of victory. What a beautiful sacrilege. It makes me think of the Christian idea of grace, of already being forgiven and loved no matter what: on the surface, it can feel like a cop-out, but the deeper truth of it is profoundly liberating. If you know you are already forgiven, already loved, it somehow becomes easier to free yourself from the endless cycle of shame and doubt that underlies so much suffering and harm (the story "Tenth of December" comes to mind here). Experiencing a moment of grace can help you extricate yourself from the intolerable inner world of self-imposed pressure and anxiety and expectation and begin orienting yourself towards the outside world, towards others and their needs. I've never thought before that quitting might, in certain cases, do the same thing.
For so long, quitting has been such a taboo word to me, such an unthinkable concept. I've always thought that if I quit writing like I've quit so many others things in life, then I'm lazy, a failure, useless. In our culture, "quitter" is far worse than "sinner"; the lowest circle of contemporary Hell is the Circle of Quitters, and I have always been so terrified of finding myself down there. Tonight, though, I was out for a walk, and I suddenly asked myself "What if I quit writing?" And for the first time in my life, I felt not dread but giddiness. "What if I quit writing?"
And now I feel more free to write than ever before.
The writer, the writer's writer friend, and Mr. Saunders have together created an epistolary therapy that should, I think, help and encourage many Story Clubbers. Today's office hours is salve for what ought not to be a wound, but for some may be, or will be: the difficulty of delivering to a desired audience. This hits home: "...to write for oneself is a deep and rewarding thing to do, and publishing and so on can be intelligently regarded as a sort of "nice if it happens, but not essential" kind of thing.)"
And more comfort: "...something of value to offer the world....will tangibly alter some lives for the better. I like to think of writing that way because it takes the selfishness and desperation out of it. "Can I help?" feels more workable than 'Can I win?'" In my own case, I have friends and family who like my stuff. Enjoyment is helpful.
My late brother-in-law had a toast, raised at family gatherings. I'll raise it here for all of your readers, Mr. Saunders, and all of us in Story Club: "We are so lucky!"
"Even if you're not actively writing because you are too busy, you are still a writer, because of the way you regard the world - with curiosity and interest and some sort of love."
The way the writer in you regards the world, perhaps, the person George mentions in 'A Swim in the Pond...' as being the better version of ourselves. I try to spend a lot of each day with this person, even when I'm not writing. I imagine the same is true of all who try to express, in whatever medium, something of life beyond the mundane, repetitive and utilitarian.
Dear George. I've read a lot of your work, read many interviews, been a subscriber to this newsletter from this start and even met you briefly in person at a book signing in Sydney, Australia ie fanboy. I feel like I have a pretty good grasp on your public persona and at least a sort of insight into your personal persona. My conclusion is you're a nice guy. You also talk of empathy, compassion and kindness as being essential to being a good writer. Now, sadly, I don't feel I have these things. I don't think I'm mean and horrible, but being on this side of my brain I know that the charity and bonhomie doesn't run as deep as I'd like it to. Do you think this means I am doomed as a writer? Do we need to be kind and compassionate to be good artists? What if your take on the world is cynical and perpetually disappointed? I don't mean to misrepresent you as some kind of Pollyanna, but I feel "niceness" for want of a better word is central to your artistic and personal philosophy. By the way, I'm not against being nice to people. It's a way I'd prefer to live. But I just feel I'm coming up short and maybe it will prevent me from making good work.
“Can I help?” as opposed to “Can I win?” What a beautiful and useful distinction. I see writers so absorbed by the business of winning vast numbers of readers that they overlook the potential impact of their words on one reader whose perspective will crack open because of what they have to say. The writer of this letter is a good friend, as George says, but also the best kind of reader any writer could have in the struggle against self-doubt. He cups the writer’s flame between his hands. I had a mentor once who used to tell me, “I can’t wait to read what you’ll say next.” She used to say it with a laugh that dispelled any pressure I might feel.
My mentor died many years ago. When I feel stuck, I listen for her voice. Hemingway spoke of the foundational “one true sentence,” and he was right. But there are times--many times--when a writer needs one true reader who radiates belief in what he or she will say next. I try to be this kind of friend for other writers whose flame is sputtering. Thank you, George, for this reminder of the power we have to support and motivate one another.
I believe you are also writing this to me, and a whole bunch of us. I like that idea about how being overly busy can work wonders on concentrating the mind, laser-like. If I can write for ten minutes in a day, it’s a good day!
All the best in warmth and light and time to the letter writer and friend!
I cried reading this. While I write professionally and daily, this friend is me when it comes to more creative writing that isn't attached to paying bills (at least at my nascent stage). The battle between giving up the hope of finishing a piece of fiction and acknowledging its call is strong within me. George's answer was helpful. The obstruction is, indeed, a part of my journey.
Man, I haven't even read George's answer yet, but hot damn, I could use a friend that believes in me that much.
Well, that sort of hit the nail right on the head for me. I guess you could say I'm that writer, but at the tail end of it all. I'm the result of what happens when you give up on yourself, and as a result, your dreams. I'm 64 at this moment. I plan to retire in January after working for 45 years at the same job. (It's a sawmill out here in the Vancouver {Canada} area.) I started writing a long time ago. I had dreams and aspirations of being another Oliver Goldsmith. A book, a play, a poem. I wrote the poem. It was a narrative ballad of Robin Hood that ended up being 212 pages when I self published it in 1977. I started writing the book when I was 28 (pre computer/internet days) I wrote three different versions of it. It was 325,000 words. Too long, I know. The play, well, I started that last year. I decided to make it iambic pentameter, just for the challenge.
And what happened?
Well, I started working at the mill. I got distracted with sex, drugs and rock and roll. I slipped into the vortex--fell into the rabbit hole so to speak. I got married, had kids, bought a house and went through six or seven strikes...bottom line: Life. Sometimes it gets in the way of our dreams.
I never gave up on my writing, though. I managed, once the computer age caught up to me, to try again. I was able to publish some stories on line, but was never able to break the paywall, so to say. And I have some pretty good stories. Problem with that? Too long...again. But I like long stories. (Alice Munro is my goddess.) I guess what I'm trying to say, is that sometimes it takes some of us a little longer to get our shit together. I've got mine together...finally. I started a SUBSTACK, because it was something I could do on my terms. I can put my stories up and if people want to read them, they can. I don't have a lot of followers, but I don't let that bother me, either. They will come if the writing is good enough to draw them in. I think it is. And that's all that matters.
The subject of the letter will eventually get his shit together, as well. When you want to write, it doesn't matter who you write for; it doesn't matter if you're the only one reading them. I realized, after all those years, that I never tried hard enough because I didn't believe in myself enough.
Sometimes, it's just as simple as that...
I think we can all relate. I was just discussing something with a friend yesterday that the letter writer and his friend reminded me of: the value of having people around you with common interests. For me, that's one of the main things I get out of Story Club. Thanks for being here, friends.
perfect reply to a beautiful letter.
I love this notion that we are exactly who we are and that our energy will radiate in some way regardless of whether we are writing or not. What a calming way to think of what we are doing here, on this earth. i barely write anymore, though others kindly encourage me. George's words help me relax into the knowledge that what i may want to say through my writing is being said through my daily actions. We are all verbs, all of the time.
One little thing that may or not be of interest to the friend: I wrote an entire book by only writing on Fridays. It was the only day i had, being a mother, wife, community member, and public school employee. i had my 'office,' which was a certain chair in the local library, and that's where i wrote each Friday until finally i had a book. So, it can be done. (On the other days of the week, i daydreamed about my eventual book, and everything I saw or heard or read became fodder for my Friday sessions. So i was never really away from the writing. Just away from my keyboard.)
Lastly, encouragement to write from others does me no good. Either i want to write or i don't. So while appreciate the faith that friends and family have in me to produce something again, their words go right out the window and I'm always happy to change the subject. One day, i will write again, when I'm ready. (i did write one short story this past year and I'm inordinately proud of it, though i haven't sent it out yet.)
George, i'm so happy that you are home.
(ps the left-side shift key stopped working on my keyboard, so there are capitals missing here, now and into the future until this computer drops dead.)
On Quitting
When my daughter was a teenager I took her to the Art Students League in the city. She has a language processing disorder & ADD but she discovered her language with pens and paper and paint. She took a print making class something she’d never done before. I’d go in with her & wait in the hall as she worked. We got to know one of the professors there, a painter who recently passed. My d wanted to go to art school for college so I asked this man his advice. He said, “If you can talk her out of it, do it. If you can’t then you must support her all the way.”
I’ve never forgot his sage wisdom that I followed despite knowing how terribly difficult a life in art is. How do you pay the bills? Not everyone is a Cindy Sherman or a Hockney.
I love what GS says in this post – that not everyone has to be a writer. I’d add or a painter, sculptor, actor. I think you do have to be compelled. Compelled by something inside that pushes to get out.
For myself, I know what GS says if you step away then the creativity will find its way into something else. I almost stopped writing this year but I didn’t stop my improv group. In fact, I added another one run by an improvisor who’s a reader & loves language. He talks about our word inventory in scenes & through his deep attention to the words we choose and speak to one another in scenes it reignited my desire for words. That and Story Club. I purposely subscribed because I felt myself falling away from the lovely “flow” of writing so I said to myself, “Well, hang around GS & the writers and readers in his club.”
Have I written anything new? No. I went back to stories I wasn’t happy with and edited them. I have four I’m playing with now. One I finalized & sent it out. I got my first acceptance of 2022! The title of it is “Stand in Line.” It’s something one of my mentors said to me/us about writing/submitting: “Stand in line long enough, and you’ll be served.”
It's true but it’s also true that stepping away, doing something completely different, getting the fix somewhere else sharpens & readies us for the return, which is oddly what GS writes about today. I guess it’s always that way. Recharging ourselves for the new undertaking.
Thanks for the post and to the questioner about his friend (It really is great advice to have him give his friend the letter; they’re blessed to have each other).
What a perfect letter. What a perfect response.
George, I so appreciate that you don't reiterate the well-worn "to be a writer you must write every day" advice that so can so easily make an aspiring writer feel "less than," when in fact, they already are -- not aspiring, but, a writer.
I do think -- assuming life is fodder -- it's important to live a little, too.
Taking a moment here to absorb the beauty of this post. Thanks to both the person who posted that plea on behalf of a friend and to you George for your humanity.
"'Well, nothing lasts forever, including obstructions. I guess this obstruction is going to be a part of my, uh, journey--part of what I hope will someday be a happy, even triumphal, story of a victory of sorts (and this is true even if that victory includes deciding not to be a writer.)"
Quitting as a form of victory. What a beautiful sacrilege. It makes me think of the Christian idea of grace, of already being forgiven and loved no matter what: on the surface, it can feel like a cop-out, but the deeper truth of it is profoundly liberating. If you know you are already forgiven, already loved, it somehow becomes easier to free yourself from the endless cycle of shame and doubt that underlies so much suffering and harm (the story "Tenth of December" comes to mind here). Experiencing a moment of grace can help you extricate yourself from the intolerable inner world of self-imposed pressure and anxiety and expectation and begin orienting yourself towards the outside world, towards others and their needs. I've never thought before that quitting might, in certain cases, do the same thing.
For so long, quitting has been such a taboo word to me, such an unthinkable concept. I've always thought that if I quit writing like I've quit so many others things in life, then I'm lazy, a failure, useless. In our culture, "quitter" is far worse than "sinner"; the lowest circle of contemporary Hell is the Circle of Quitters, and I have always been so terrified of finding myself down there. Tonight, though, I was out for a walk, and I suddenly asked myself "What if I quit writing?" And for the first time in my life, I felt not dread but giddiness. "What if I quit writing?"
And now I feel more free to write than ever before.
The writer, the writer's writer friend, and Mr. Saunders have together created an epistolary therapy that should, I think, help and encourage many Story Clubbers. Today's office hours is salve for what ought not to be a wound, but for some may be, or will be: the difficulty of delivering to a desired audience. This hits home: "...to write for oneself is a deep and rewarding thing to do, and publishing and so on can be intelligently regarded as a sort of "nice if it happens, but not essential" kind of thing.)"
And more comfort: "...something of value to offer the world....will tangibly alter some lives for the better. I like to think of writing that way because it takes the selfishness and desperation out of it. "Can I help?" feels more workable than 'Can I win?'" In my own case, I have friends and family who like my stuff. Enjoyment is helpful.
My late brother-in-law had a toast, raised at family gatherings. I'll raise it here for all of your readers, Mr. Saunders, and all of us in Story Club: "We are so lucky!"
"Even if you're not actively writing because you are too busy, you are still a writer, because of the way you regard the world - with curiosity and interest and some sort of love."
The way the writer in you regards the world, perhaps, the person George mentions in 'A Swim in the Pond...' as being the better version of ourselves. I try to spend a lot of each day with this person, even when I'm not writing. I imagine the same is true of all who try to express, in whatever medium, something of life beyond the mundane, repetitive and utilitarian.
Dear George. I've read a lot of your work, read many interviews, been a subscriber to this newsletter from this start and even met you briefly in person at a book signing in Sydney, Australia ie fanboy. I feel like I have a pretty good grasp on your public persona and at least a sort of insight into your personal persona. My conclusion is you're a nice guy. You also talk of empathy, compassion and kindness as being essential to being a good writer. Now, sadly, I don't feel I have these things. I don't think I'm mean and horrible, but being on this side of my brain I know that the charity and bonhomie doesn't run as deep as I'd like it to. Do you think this means I am doomed as a writer? Do we need to be kind and compassionate to be good artists? What if your take on the world is cynical and perpetually disappointed? I don't mean to misrepresent you as some kind of Pollyanna, but I feel "niceness" for want of a better word is central to your artistic and personal philosophy. By the way, I'm not against being nice to people. It's a way I'd prefer to live. But I just feel I'm coming up short and maybe it will prevent me from making good work.
“Can I help?” as opposed to “Can I win?” What a beautiful and useful distinction. I see writers so absorbed by the business of winning vast numbers of readers that they overlook the potential impact of their words on one reader whose perspective will crack open because of what they have to say. The writer of this letter is a good friend, as George says, but also the best kind of reader any writer could have in the struggle against self-doubt. He cups the writer’s flame between his hands. I had a mentor once who used to tell me, “I can’t wait to read what you’ll say next.” She used to say it with a laugh that dispelled any pressure I might feel.
My mentor died many years ago. When I feel stuck, I listen for her voice. Hemingway spoke of the foundational “one true sentence,” and he was right. But there are times--many times--when a writer needs one true reader who radiates belief in what he or she will say next. I try to be this kind of friend for other writers whose flame is sputtering. Thank you, George, for this reminder of the power we have to support and motivate one another.
I believe you are also writing this to me, and a whole bunch of us. I like that idea about how being overly busy can work wonders on concentrating the mind, laser-like. If I can write for ten minutes in a day, it’s a good day!
All the best in warmth and light and time to the letter writer and friend!
"I was just looking for some power, any power, in the world. But in the end, writing was all I wanted and was what I believed in the most. " Amen.
Love the dialogue with the SHED. For some reason I am thinking SHED is a she and she’s got attitude 🙂
I cried reading this. While I write professionally and daily, this friend is me when it comes to more creative writing that isn't attached to paying bills (at least at my nascent stage). The battle between giving up the hope of finishing a piece of fiction and acknowledging its call is strong within me. George's answer was helpful. The obstruction is, indeed, a part of my journey.