Shrinkage
One of the surgeons that my wife works with told her that he'd be interested in reading the book I'd just first drafted. Why he or anyone volunteers for this type of duty is beyond me. What if you absolutely hated it? What if you thought I were the worst kind of unmitigated hack? Don't you have any Shakespeare or Dickens lying around that has a greater call on you? Bless 'em all for the offer, though, and I gratefully accepted the offer.
I think this kind of thing is different from the writing group kind of experience. For one thing, it's completely voluntary: the reader is under no obligation to generate advice, tips, pointers or anything beyond the fact that it would be awfully strange if they didn't at least say whether or not they liked it. There's no encouragement either asked for or expected; no (or at least) reduced fear of disapproval or discouragement; and it gives me the closest feedback from an "impartial" reader that I can get.
The problem is that I've found it can be depressing as hell. Not call the psychiatrist and refill the Prozac hide the sharp objects kind of depression, but maybe not far off. When there's positive feedback I want to go to ground, find a dark place with no family and no dogs and no good things where I can ruminate on the dead ends and dwindling byways I've allowed my life to drift along. For the sake of argument if we assume I have some talent, some technical knowledge, some skill, some knack for telling a story or writing in an entertaining manner. Why the hell have I waited so long to get around to it?
The short answer is that I listened to my mother. Though I didn't quite swallow the whole be-a-doctor/lawyer/eminent scientist thing, I did stay away from being an astronaut, race car driver, and rock and roll singer. It may be the world's everlasting loss, but I fell into computers instead. Stubbornness and being early to the personal computer era contributed to my staying in it as long as I did but now that the long dream is over, waking up is awfully scary. Unless businesses start getting tax breaks for hiring geezers, I'm too old to go back to school, get a degree, and start a new career. The same is just about true for going back into IT: after some years off, who would hire me?
Clearly bright and enlightened employers must be out there somewhere, and I'm not so far past forty that I wouldn't necessarily be able to find them, but the fact remains that what I want to do now, and have wanted to since I was around eight years old, is write books.
An author friend in Florida read the 43k word start that I want to re-work for my next book. She said good enough things that it about killed me. Melissa's co-worker was positive enough that it ruined the rest of our vacation weekend at a classic New England hotel. Three of the four other people that have read it have all had different things to say, which is good, but the overall feedback has been very positive.
My daydreams all involve where I'd be if only I'd written constantly since the birth of the ambition. Even if I completely sucked, after writing eighty or ninety books I'd expect to achieve some level of competency.
Hopes for sanity lie with my dad. He's read the book but he's like a literary clam. I can't get a damned thing out of him. I suspect that means he doesn't care for it, which is completely fine. Karaoke be hanged, he can be my Simon. I've just got to work harder on that next one.
I think this kind of thing is different from the writing group kind of experience. For one thing, it's completely voluntary: the reader is under no obligation to generate advice, tips, pointers or anything beyond the fact that it would be awfully strange if they didn't at least say whether or not they liked it. There's no encouragement either asked for or expected; no (or at least) reduced fear of disapproval or discouragement; and it gives me the closest feedback from an "impartial" reader that I can get.
The problem is that I've found it can be depressing as hell. Not call the psychiatrist and refill the Prozac hide the sharp objects kind of depression, but maybe not far off. When there's positive feedback I want to go to ground, find a dark place with no family and no dogs and no good things where I can ruminate on the dead ends and dwindling byways I've allowed my life to drift along. For the sake of argument if we assume I have some talent, some technical knowledge, some skill, some knack for telling a story or writing in an entertaining manner. Why the hell have I waited so long to get around to it?
The short answer is that I listened to my mother. Though I didn't quite swallow the whole be-a-doctor/lawyer/eminent scientist thing, I did stay away from being an astronaut, race car driver, and rock and roll singer. It may be the world's everlasting loss, but I fell into computers instead. Stubbornness and being early to the personal computer era contributed to my staying in it as long as I did but now that the long dream is over, waking up is awfully scary. Unless businesses start getting tax breaks for hiring geezers, I'm too old to go back to school, get a degree, and start a new career. The same is just about true for going back into IT: after some years off, who would hire me?
Clearly bright and enlightened employers must be out there somewhere, and I'm not so far past forty that I wouldn't necessarily be able to find them, but the fact remains that what I want to do now, and have wanted to since I was around eight years old, is write books.
An author friend in Florida read the 43k word start that I want to re-work for my next book. She said good enough things that it about killed me. Melissa's co-worker was positive enough that it ruined the rest of our vacation weekend at a classic New England hotel. Three of the four other people that have read it have all had different things to say, which is good, but the overall feedback has been very positive.
My daydreams all involve where I'd be if only I'd written constantly since the birth of the ambition. Even if I completely sucked, after writing eighty or ninety books I'd expect to achieve some level of competency.
Hopes for sanity lie with my dad. He's read the book but he's like a literary clam. I can't get a damned thing out of him. I suspect that means he doesn't care for it, which is completely fine. Karaoke be hanged, he can be my Simon. I've just got to work harder on that next one.
posted by Rick Ollerman at 1:33 PM
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