The Things That Matter

This picture is what I call "The writer in brooding as he works to secure a publisher." This boy is how I imagine I looked long ago. Our emotions are ineffable. My professional frustration is a tempest.

Why is it whenever you tell someone, "I'm a writer," the next question he or she always asks is, "What do you write about?" Somehow I'm never quite prepared to respond. Usually I reply in the negative form. "Everything but horror and fantasy." Next time someone asks me what I write about I will say, "The things that matter." I avoid subjects that are a flash in the pan or formulaic thrillers. INSERT: Tangent. How many people have actually read all, yes all, of Styron's Sophie's Choice? Most admit to having seen the film which nicely condenses the extensive novel. There are beautiful passages within the lengthy narrative. However, had Sophie's Choice been Styron's debut manuscript, I suspect most publishers would have turned him away because of the novel's indulgent, superfluous descriptions. But timing was helpful when the book came out and Styron was already established as an author. He had a track record. Exceptions where length is concerned became acceptable for Styron and Pat Conroy. And what about Dickens who was paid by the word! This explains his propensity for extended novels. But in the case of a relatively unknown writer such as myself, with a story of breadth, well then, God help me. I need someone to see, not simply look. Like the picture above, why was this boy different? What set him apart from thousands of grief-stricken and displaced souls? The photographer had to be in the right place at the right time and observant. The subject of the Holocaust was still fresh in society's mind (even during the late 70s) when Styron's book hit the shelves. I draw this parallel because the themes in my novel are similarly timely to the 21st century, whereas Styron's work captures one of the darkest epochs of the 20th century. Make no mistake, I am not calling myself Styron. I don't want to be him or compared with any other writer/person. I will always maintain a name for myself. Who Has Known Heights can have no other author because I was there--I participated in, and witnessed, the remarkable events. I didn't choose to write this story. The story chose me.

Life is short. You shouldn't spend a single moment doing something you were not intended for. Granted, you may find yourself in a position where you must do something you don't like. This is not the same thing as going along complacently. Doing things we'd rather not builds character. There are events that find us with our backs against the wall and we feel we have no other choice. This is a mistake to believe. Everything offers a choice. There is nothing else I wish to thoroughly engage in other than writing. Knowing this and following it are two separate parts. Writing is a sacrifice, make no doubt about it. I am professionally frustrated because I receive accolades and supportive feedback, yet my voice has not reached a wide enough audience. I feel I am toiling for the sake of toiling. This is not enough. I write so that I can impact others and help them. To date, my writing has provided me with a very rich life, rich in the emotional sense of character and experiences. It is honest work, demanding absolute loyalty.

I look at the masses racing around. Amidst this kinetic, ceaseless energy, I see the depravity of what our society has become. We are wired to run a marathon when the only rush is in our minds. Where is everyone going in such a hurry? To what end? Input. Output. More, more, more. When will it be enough? My novel, Who Has Known Heights, identifies the element that has not changed from the beginning of our consciousness, and that will will never fade: the need and capacity to find connection in another person. 'Love' is too cute, bromidic, and general a term to throw around. I prefer to use the word Truth as a noun. Truth is what I write about, if you or anyone should ask. What it means to feel and be alive, to be young and turn old, to see it all slip away and return. The person I was, and the person you were at 23, never leaves. That time and place forms us, is absorbed and never dies. Life is not linear, although the years make it appear so. This is why at 45 or 87 a person can still "feel" through memory what he or she felt when he/she was at the starting gates. This is why music and the olfactory senses are so important. They are intrinsically tied to our sense of recollection.