It seems that many people who consider themselves writers, or who think they would like to be writers, lack the talent, luck, and discipline to be successful. Most who write as a profession do so only part-time (there are very few Stephen King’s and J.K. Rowling’s out there, folks), while holding down teaching jobs or some other gig to pay the mortgage. All the same, there are some of us who, published or not, can’t not write. We may not be “good” at writing in a literary sense, but we enjoy the self-discovery process associated with it.
I found an inspiring article while Google loafing this morning and wanted to share a snippet of it. The excerpt below is from Anne Enright, a wise and talented writer you may have never heard of.
“The writer’s life is one of great privilege, so “Suck it up”, you might say – there are more fans than trolls. But there are two, sometimes separate, ambitions here. One is to get known, make money perhaps and take a bow – to be acknowledged by that dangerous beast, the crowd. The other is to write a really good book.
“And a book is not written for the crowd, but for one reader at a time. A novel is written (rather pathetically) not to be judged, but experienced. You want to meet people in their own heads – at least I do. I still have this big, stupid idea that if you are good enough and lucky enough you can make an object that insists on its own subjective truth, a personal thing, a book that shifts between its covers and will not stay easy on the page, a real novel, one that lives, talks, breathes, refuses to die. And in this, I am doomed to fail.”
If you’d like to read the article in its entirely, you may do so here.