Odyssey, epiphany...
Sep. 24th, 2010 04:41 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
alexpgpI very likely got the idea that I could write from my mom, who never let me forget that my father was a newspaperman, one of that rare breed of writers who could turn out copy that required no editing (a statement she would punctuate by repeated interjections of "not a comma").
She also revealed to me her very simple formula for becoming a writer - "All you have to do is type a million words" - the apparent idea being that, by time you've done that, you've become accustomed to the grind and have probably gained higher-than-average facility at storytelling. (Indeed, I believe I read somewhere that before achieving success as a writer, John D. MacDonald wrote over 800,000 words in stories that nobody wanted to buy.)
Her advice was not of the first-hand variety, for although it is evident to me from her papers that there was a time in her life when she really wanted to be a writer, that desire seems to have been the extent of her achievement. (And believe me, I know the pangs of that desire quite well, although Hayes Jacobs - who taught a nonfiction writing course I signed up for at the New School in Manhattan - placed that feeling into stark perspective when he told our class: "People who say they want to write most often really want to have been published, which is altogether a different thing.")
Unfortunately, right now, I must continue to work on the final batch of The Big Edit™ and get as much done as possible before dinner. After dinner, I must turn to the job of preparing to leave for Denver tomorrow (so much to do, including a briefing for the house-sitter), but I just wanted to catch these fleeting thoughts and note them down so as to somehow lend balance to some of the depictions of my late mother that I've made in various LJ posts.
Cheers...
She also revealed to me her very simple formula for becoming a writer - "All you have to do is type a million words" - the apparent idea being that, by time you've done that, you've become accustomed to the grind and have probably gained higher-than-average facility at storytelling. (Indeed, I believe I read somewhere that before achieving success as a writer, John D. MacDonald wrote over 800,000 words in stories that nobody wanted to buy.)
Her advice was not of the first-hand variety, for although it is evident to me from her papers that there was a time in her life when she really wanted to be a writer, that desire seems to have been the extent of her achievement. (And believe me, I know the pangs of that desire quite well, although Hayes Jacobs - who taught a nonfiction writing course I signed up for at the New School in Manhattan - placed that feeling into stark perspective when he told our class: "People who say they want to write most often really want to have been published, which is altogether a different thing.")
Unfortunately, right now, I must continue to work on the final batch of The Big Edit™ and get as much done as possible before dinner. After dinner, I must turn to the job of preparing to leave for Denver tomorrow (so much to do, including a briefing for the house-sitter), but I just wanted to catch these fleeting thoughts and note them down so as to somehow lend balance to some of the depictions of my late mother that I've made in various LJ posts.
Cheers...
