On a cluttered wall in my office is a poster, a quote from Thomas Jefferson. “There is nothing more alive than works in progress.” I get that.
Decades ago, I wrote a kid’s biography of Jefferson. I researched his life events and read his words and studied his actions. A lot of what he wrote is quote-worthy:
–I’m a great believer in luck, and I find the harder I work, the more I have of it.
–It is neither wealth nor splendor, but tranquility and occupation which give you happiness.
I applied his ideas to my writing life, which had a major interruption.
Jim had a stroke, and I quit writing. I’d finished the rough draft of a children’s nonfiction book that was due to the publisher in three weeks. When I was kicked out of ICU at 10:00 that first night, I returned home and emailed the editor that I couldn’t complete the book. I packaged the manuscript and all the source documents for the fact checkers, and the next morning our son sent it by overnight mail. I told the editor she could give it to another writer, and she owed me nothing for my work. When she got the packet, she emailed that except for the missing backmatter (glossary, further reading list), the manuscript was fine, so she paid me, and my name was on the cover.
During the next couple years, Jim and I walked the neighborhood, worked on his numbers and reading, and completed written homework. (Sample questions and his responses that show his personality: How do you describe an opera? Loud. What is menopause? Hell. What is a serious disease? Loneliness.) During this time, I turned down book after book when editors called with an assignment, and I fell off editors’ lists. As Jim’s brain made new connections around its walnut-sized dead spot, he regained his independence and his driver’s license, and he didn’t need my constant help. It was time I jump-started my writing life.
Discounting the big dogs, Stephen King and James Patterson, writers don’t make much money. They create the product, but it’s an inverted pyramid when it comes to payout. The writer’s research and imagination must support the acquisition editors, line editors, proofreaders, printers, marketers, distributors, well, the entire publishing company. So money isn’t the real reason why I write.
I believe all writers are egotists, which certainly includes me. I like seeing my byline in a magazine or my name on the cover of a book. I love it when a person reads something I wrote and writes a review saying it made them look at life a little differently or they found the takeaway inspiring.
Since I’d learned from Jim’s affliction that life is so very unpredictable, I decided to quit writing to publisher’s demands and write what I wanted—mainstream novels. I didn’t want to spend these golden years sending out query letters to editors. So I gave it up. I invented characters I liked and told their stories. When I finished each novel about my invisible friends and it became an eBook, I started another.
My latest project has been a challenge. I decided to write a mainstream series. Not a mystery, not a Christmas romance, but slice-of-life in a small town and characters learning life’s lessons with real joys and heartbreaks. It’s a lot harder than I imagined. My second in the Lost Creek novel series just came out. I’m working on the third.
After revising the second manuscript umpteen times, I read it aloud five more times to find errors. The last time through, I noticed the train depot’s straight couch in the first book had magically become a sectional in the second. I fixed that. It’s a tiny detail that readers may not notice, but some might, and it would make me look like a sloppy writer. I work hard to be passably good at this. I’m not being self-effacing; I believe most writers suffer from imposter syndrome like I do. I sold my first book to a publisher in January of 1991, since then dozens more to other publishers, yet I’m still learning how to make a story hold together well. To get better, I study craft books and writers’ magazines. It’s hard, but I love it. Writing gives me purpose. I do it for me.
I think everybody needs purpose in their life. Whether gardening, painting, needle-pointing, researching genealogy, photographing, playing music, volunteering, sculpting, quilting, woodworking, thrifting, acting, dancing, cooking, etc. Whatever it may be, we all need something creative that brings us pleasure, conveys a sense of accomplishment, and gives us purpose.
I was never a fan of the heavy metal band Black Sabbath, but I finally identified with Ozzy Osbourne, who echoed Thomas Jefferson’s philosophy. Although suffering from Parkinson’s disease, Ozzy played his last concert 17 days before he died in July of this year. In a much earlier interview with Rolling Stone, the musician answered a reporter’s question: “Retire from what? It’s not a job.
Find purpose. It’s not a job.
