Why Do We Publish?
BY MICHAEL LaROCCA
A major "character" in Mark Salzman's first autobiography is his father.
Sometimes his father paints. But his father hates painting. He likes it when
his painting is done. He likes having painted. But the act of painting
itself is, in his opinion, a big pain in the backside.
Nobody reading this approaches writing like that, do they? I know I
don't. Of all my experiences as an author, whacking those words down onto
the paper is the best of the best. Always has been, always will be. Even
though I cut most of them. I like creating.
I've quoted Hemingway before. Long periods of thinking, short periods of
writing. These days, my thinking's taking longer and my periods of writing
are getting less frequent, but both still happen, and I still love creating
something from nothing.
If it weren't for me, you would never read the words you're reading right
now. Nobody else would ever write them. And they contain my thoughts.
Through time and space, better than telepathy, you hear what I'm saying.
So, there's one reason to write, isn't it? The biggie, if you ask me. I
write what I do because I can't NOT write it. I may be clarifying my
thoughts in my own head. But, most certainly, I'm just so moved by those
thoughts that I must put them on paper. They're in me and they have to get
out, kinda like those critters in the Alien movies.
(If we want to extend this sick analogy even farther beyond the pale,
self-editing is the process of cleaning the blood and guts from the sucking
chest wound. Then we work with editors because we miss a few spots and
perhaps have trouble stitching up our very own guts and... I should shut
up!)
Is this the only reason to write? Because I want to zap my thoughts into
your heads? I don't know. But let me change the question. Is this a reason
to publish? Why not write your books and stick them in a filing cabinet like
Sean Connery did in the film Finding Forrester? Every fraggin guru on the
circuit talks about self-expression. Write it, express it, file it away. Why
publish it?
(It's okay if you haven't seen this obscure little gem. I will explain
all.)
In fact, there are writers who do exactly that. Some fear rejection or
criticism. We hear about them whenever we pop into a writing workshop. But,
I don't think there are very many of them. I have trouble picturing someone
who can spend months (years?) doing something as essentially egotistical as
writing a novel, but who is fundamentally lacking in any sort of
self-confidence. Naw, they're thinking posterity but lack the stones to
admit it.
At times I've got an inferiority complex I wouldn't dream of whacking
onto your shoulders, but it was absent when I wrote my books. During the act
of writing itself, you think, "My words are better than your words." You do.
You feel that you must record your thoughts because they're that much better
than most. That's what writing is. So, I would say that by definition the
author isn't ALWAYS plagued by self-doubt.
In Finding Forrester, the Sean Connery character won the Pulitzer with
his first book, saw that every reviewer misunderstood him, and decided they
could all get stuffed. This is a movie, a work of fiction, but I understand
the attitude. I once wrote a true story, where the main character was
Michael LaRocca, only to have a critic slam the main character as
"unbelievable." Apparently I don't act like real people.
I could never shove all my writing in a filing cabinet, unpublished,
and tell the establishment to get stuffed. But yep, there are stupid people
in the world, and some of them review books.
So, we've identified two groups who won't be seeking publication.
Hopelessly insecure and hopelessly arrogant. But, like Aristotle, I prefer
moderation. You still may be wondering why I seek publication. So do I.
Let my exploration of this question continue.
I've hit bestseller status for two different e-publishers with three
different books. Minor thrills at the time, but there's no way I could call
them enough of a reward for what I put into writing.
You're an author. You know what I'm talking about. We all but kill
ourselves to make our books. So, let's be blunt here. Unless you're going to
throw Rowling/King/Clancy/Grisham money at me — and you are NOT — money
isn't sufficient reason to publish. Nobody reading this article has quit
his/her "real job" to be a full-time writer.
Publishing isn't just a case of sending it to a publisher, signing a
contract, and being done.
Next up is editing, which is a blast. Not at the time, perhaps. Any
editor worth a damn will beat you over the head with every bad word choice
you ever made. And you made hundreds! But at the end of that gauntlet, you
know you are da bomb.
Seeing my cover art is almost always awesome. Yes, I did say "almost."
One bad experience among seven. It happens. But, if you've worked with a
publisher, you know what I mean. You log onto the old Internet one day, not
fully conscious, amazed that you poured that first cup of coffee without
burning off your naughty bits. You pop open an email and see cover art that
almost makes your head explode. You get this big rush, thinking, "Someone
understands my writing!" What you don't realize, naive little author, is
that some artists don't even read the books they do the art for. But still.
The art rocks your world. Feel that. I always enjoy clicking those email
attachments and seeing MY book covers.
But, then comes marketing. Biggest pain in the... Well, let's just say it
makes me want to not publish sometimes. So, why publish?
I've entered the EPPIES twice, and been a finalist both times. Off the
top of my head, I can think of no other ebook award that gets my attention.
The second time one of my books was an EPPIE finalist, I made some wisecrack
in an author's egroup about how "finalist" is a synonym for "loser" and was
raked over the coals.
Oops!
(Maybe I annoyed entrants who weren't finalists. I'd always wondered if
they existed...)
So, let's say I'm not publishing for money or awards. They sing a siren
song to new authors which this jaded old bastard quit hearing long ago.
Really, I got all that mess out of my system in the previous millennium. So,
why do I still publish? What are my rewards? Let me mention a few.
A psychologist turned English teacher formed a women's reading group at
the university where we once worked together in China. Her concept was women
readers, women writers. But the first book the group ever discussed was my
very ow Rising From the Ashes, which is about Mom. My only foray into
"women's literature." I couldn't attend the reading group, since I'm a guy,
but my wife was there. What I learned about my book is priceless, as is
knowing what those young students discussed because of my writing. Issues of
such depth that I'd be proud to inspire any student, in any country, in any
language, to tackle them.
I used to work on North Carolina hog farms. I enjoyed the company of some
damn fine people at every one of them. Hog farming is hard work. This isn't
the backyard family farm, folks, this is 13 people with 98 boars, 3500 sows,
and all the babies they can make. One of my toughest coworkers was a lesbian
who could break Xena in half, and my one foray into writing horror gave her
nightmares.
I don't consider myself a poet, and I believe most of the reading world
agrees with me. But, I have published 6 poems. There is one that a hog farm
coworker insists will be read at his funeral. Don't ask me why he was
planning his funeral during our lunch break because I have no idea. But,
well, I guess I'm invited, in a manner of speaking. Back when I was young
enough to plan my own funeral, it involved a friend playing Elton John's
Funeral for a Friend. So, compared to Sir Elton John, I know a guy who would
prefer that somebody read MY poetry. Freaky.
Master Pizza, 30th Street, Tampa, Florida. A bunch of drunken Italian
relatives reading one of my less-than-serious poems ALOUD between pitchers
of beer. It was like a Joe Dolce moment.
I was working as a security guard in a particularly unpleasant place.
This was 17 years ago, I think. A fellow guard read one of my short stories.
It is, by far, the most allegorical thing I've ever written. I can't tell
you how many times I've thought about throwing it out. But then, I remember
Bob's words. "This is me. This is my life." Me too, old pal, and I don't
care if you and I are the only two readers to have any idea what I'm talking
about. {Scapegoat Bob!}
I've written some pretty heady volumes, but I've also written quite a few
short works. I've heard from numerous students here in China that, "This is
the first book in English I've ever finished reading." When I write, I
certainly never set out to help anyone learn English. (Some of my editors
may claim I never learned the language.) And, students will LIE to teachers.
But I've decided that at least one was telling the truth.
When I left the US, I embarked on several journeys. Learning to live in
China. Learning to love again. Taking another shot at the writer dream. And,
eventually, teaching. After all that, I tried my hand at writing humor for
the first time. Every time I hear my wife laugh at something I've written, I
file it away as a reason to keep writing.
I've written one play in my life. I was young, and quite hooked on the
album (pre-CD days) Jesus Christ Superstar. So, you guessed it, I tackled JC.
I wrote something that nobody can read without having a powerful reaction.
Readers love it or they hate it. I'm proud of that. And hey, it's only one
act long. I have a short attention span.
I loaned Clint "Two Dawgs" Hill my very first book. My cousin. He took it
to Durham (North Carolina) and loaned it to a bunch of hippie buddies. He
asked for another, because the first one fell apart from overuse. That's why
we publish. People all but fighting for the chance to read my words. And
heck, the book wasn't even good yet. It's 20 years older now.
I mention all this for the jaded old bastards who have a few novels and
bit of minor success under their belts. Nobody else is reading this anymore,
are they?
So, maybe this is why we don't just stop when the book is written, stick
it in a drawer, and uncork the champagne. Although I do hope you uncorked
the champagne. This planet contains far too many people who "want to be
authors" but who haven't written a book. Never have, never will. Meanwhile,
you and I are sitting here knowing we had no choice. We had to write.
And now, I guess it's time to publish.
Who Moved My Rice? is available
from Books Unbound.
Copyright © 2004 Michael LaRocca
Michael LaRocca's
website was chosen by Writers Digest as one of The 101
Best Websites For Writers in 2001 and 2002. He published two novels in
2002 and has two more scheduled for publication in 2004. He also works
as an editor for an e-publisher. He teaches English at a university in Shaoxing, Zhejiang Province, China, and publishes the free weekly
newsletter Mad About Books.
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