John La Farge: The Dawn [Former Title: Dawn on the Edge of Night] (1899)

" … before I could properly proclaim myself AWriter."

When my soul brother died of ALS, I became the apparent heir to replace him as the author's representative on our mutual publisher's board of directors. This nomination boosted my sense of legitimacy as an author, if not necessarily as a writer. It was unusual in the publishing industry for an author's representative, let alone an actual author, to serve on a publishing company's board. Other board members included a bookshop owner, a diversity and inclusion expert, also an author, and a woman who worked for a prominent author's company, so it was more than just me there representing author interests. The assignment confused me since its details had little to do with what interested me. I was never that into balance sheets, but the responsibilities leaned more toward encouraging a coherence between the firm's philosophy and its operations. That purpose was right up my alley. I even felt hesitantly competent to serve.

The firm's CEO took to coaching me through a book idea I'd been harboring but hadn't managed to get flying. He'd task me with writing something, then talk me through what he saw in it. I struggled to declare a theme before writing anything, an old bugaboo for me that stretched back as far as fourth grade where the teacher insisted on checking the outline before the essay was even started and then punishing if the resulting story was different than the outline predicted. For me, that process seemed more like transcription than like creative writing. I deeply questioned the utility of being able to crisply outline before writing and doubted the necessity of being able to stick to that outline when actually writing. That process seemed to require mindreading.

For me, actual writing involved letting go to see what might emerge. A storyline couldn't help but emerge, but it should be at least a little meandering since that seems to be how life works. The books where everything seemed preternaturally regulated don't seem believable since our world doesn't work like that. The general conventions for writing scared me. I seemed incapable of adopting them. This fact alone seemed to obviate my ever becoming an actual writer. I had been lucky, I guessed, to have written my minor best seller. I was terrible at promoting that work, a prominent part of every writer's world. My lector liked the prose I produced, but a great rift occurred before we could craft those pieces into a book.

Let's say there was a disagreement. A new author stood up at the annual author's gathering and delivered an uninvited scathing rant. I felt embarrassed for him, for it seemed he was accusing those present of sins they could not commit. I didn't understand the source of his complaints. Several authors excused themselves. A few retired to the courtyard in tears. Later that evening, I approached the complainant and, as the author's representative and myself, said that I hadn't appreciated his presentation and thought he'd gone too far. I told him that his accusations had been a form of assault, like a rape forced upon an innocent audience. Word got around that I'd accused that author of raping his audience, all sense of metaphor lost in transmission. Said author recruited others to represent his interests. They told me that the author wanted this or that. He wanted an apology. I wondered why he didn't ask me directly but was told he wouldn't talk to me without a moderator. I'd scared him. I agreed to the moderator he suggested. He quickly dropped the offer to talk.

I wrote what I considered to be an authentic apology, though I would have preferred that he submit one to me. His representative insisted that my apology was not acceptable. The publisher's office staff took to telling new authors to refrain from interacting with me. When I complained about this behavior, the publisher replied that he thought the controversy was healthy. It sure didn't seem that healthy for me. I saw the double bind, and I knew from my professional experience how I would respond. That author had created a narrative within which the author's representative was untrustworthy. With considerable talk therapy we might have been able to heal the rift that seemed unnecessary to begin with. I still believe that the author committed an atrocity before that gathering. I resigned from the board and the author's co-op. The co-op board resigned, too, in solidarity with me, though they unresigned the following day. Since then, I've had nothing to do with the operation of that publisher or that co-op board.

As I watched most of my public engagements crumble around me, I realized that I had been giving away way too much of myself. As the author representative, my focus drifted further away from my primary interest. Yes, I could and did help the co-op become viable again, and yes, I'd enjoyed the distraction provided by serving on the corporate board, but neither occupation contributed anything to my becoming AWriter—quite the opposite.

The six months following that divorce and dismemberment were difficult. Without my primary distraction, I was left facing what I had apparently wanted to be distracted from. I'd lost my writing mentor in the exchange, too. What I'd learned on that board and as a leader in the co-op had left me doubtful that I would ever be published again. The statistics were discouraging. The numbers were essentially overwhelming. The idea that I might become a paid writer also seemed absurd. I would have to invent a context within which I could become AWriter if I ever were to become one. Between plotting my comeback and volunteering my services, I'd Exiled myself again. Abandoning both of those focuses felt like another Exile piled on top. After all that effort, though, I still wasn't quite AWriter. Two more events would have to occur before I could properly proclaim myself AWriter.

©2024 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: #Exiled, #PureSchmaltz