Eager Young Author Seeks Others of Her Kind

I watched a movie with Da yesterday. It wasn’t the one we’d intended to watch, but my dvd remote was on the fritz (what did I honestly expect from an electronic gadget priced at under $20?), preventing me from skipping to the second title on the homemade disc. And so, we settled in for a viewing of The Prince of Players, a 1955 gem starring Richard Burton as overwhelmingly talented Shakespearean actor Edwin Booth. (Some of you may have heard of his younger brother John. If not, just Google him, along with Ford’s Theatre, Abraham Lincoln and the phrase Sic Semper Tyrannis. I’m sure you’ll come up with something informative.)

Honestly, as is often the case when I sit down to watch a Da-selected movie, I’ve already gone through several grains of salt during his lengthy description process and have a handful more squirrelled away in my pocket. “It’s a great movie,” he said. “You’ll really enjoy it if you just give it a chance.” I did, and was enthralled immediately. It didn’t hurt that I’m a rabid fan of all things related to Shakespeare, but even if I wasn’t, I’d be forced to admit it is a great movie.

But this isn’t a movie review. That little tidbit only served as some much-needed inspiration to get me blogging again following month upon month of deafening silence. Not to give away the best part of the movie (I’m about to do just that, so if you plan on watching it, you might want to avert your eyes while you read this), but there’s a lovely little scene right at the end when an angry mob of erstwhile fans have crowded into the theatre to pelt Edwin Booth with all sorts of rancid vegetable matter, understandably upset that his brother has recently murdered the president. That, in and of itself, is nothing to write home, or even blog, about. What got to me was what Edwin did in the face of that adversity. (And this is a true story, by the way. I asked Da. He was there.)

Sitting alone on the stage, abandoned by his startled fellow thespians who fled to the wings rather than face the onslaught of vegetation, and God only knows what else, Edwin Booth moved not a muscle. He simply sat there, immobile, resolute, allowing the crowd to vent its collective anger upon him, and him alone. Eventually the ammunition was used up, the hostility abated and a hush fell over the theatre. In the silence, one man called out, “You’re all right, Booth!” and began to applaud. Soon, others followed suit and before long the formerly bloodthirsty, would-be mob was cheering their hearts out for the very man they had wanted to rip to pieces only moments before.

I watched that final scene, tears in my eyes, and thought how brave he was to sit there and take, quite literally, everything they could throw at him. It reminded me how, as a writer, I must be willing to do the same thing, although (I would hope) not quite as literally as all that. I’ll admit it sometimes feels that way. There are critics hiding under every rock, waiting to hurl their opinion as soon as you walk by. It takes a brave soul to expose their beloved creations to a jaded world. I thought about a fellow author I’ve been communicating with. He wrote an incredible book, one I read and loved more than I’d expected to. I immediately wrote a review for him and was shocked to find, in reading some other reviews, that nobody else seemed to have gotten what I had out of reading it. He’s understandably shaken, and I know how he feels. It must be quite similar to how Edwin Booth felt up there on that stage, all alone.

So far in my career I’ve been lucky enough to have been ignored by a few agents and publishers who didn’t feel like taking the time to read my manuscript, let alone comment on it, constructively or otherwise, but have also thus far avoided the slings and arrows of outrageous reviewers. They pick and claw and mangle what we’ve written, turning our very words against us. And all the while we’re expected to sit there and take it, often even thank them for taking the time to review us at all. They feel they deserve our gratitude – after all, where would we be without their acknowledgement of our efforts? I sometimes think they forget we’re even human.

But human we are, and thus we shall remain, if for no other purpose than to feel all the agonies and triumphs that propel us on to better writing. And so I asked myself if I was willing to sit upon that stage, the stage of literary presentation, before a world that may not understand or welcome me, knowing full well that I may be shunned or even pelted within an inch of my life. I pondered whether or not I could truly handle everything that surely awaits me as a struggling first-time author with little to no qualifications that seem so important to the critics and the almighty publishing muckity-mucks. Can I stand there, day after day, falling back at times, but pushing ever onward to my goal of eventual success (on my own terms) in this great big sea that is the literary world?

Yes, I can. I can, and I will. And I’ll stand there all alone if I have to. But wouldn’t it be great if others joined me? There is, after all, strength in numbers. I’m dreaming of an army of unknown authors by my side, advancing our troops, going forth into the hungry masses that yearn for well-written novels, spreading our works throughout the land. In the end, we are the ones who will be left standing when this great publishing empire as we know it crumbles in upon itself. We must not fall, we must not turn tail and run, for our goal is to gain the respect we so richly deserve.

It is with high hopes that I now extend the hand of friendship and invite my fellow starving authors, poor in coin but rich in spirit, to join me in this quest to endure all for the sake of our writing. If we network enough, get a slew of like-minded people together, who knows what we can accomplish? But it’s bound to be a heck of a lot more than we can manage to do alone. My plans are sketchy, but I’ve got to do something. To quote the lyrics from Paint Your Wagon, “Where are we goin’? I don’t know. When will we be there? I ain’t certain. All I know is I am on my way.”

The journey begins today. Let me know if you’d like to come along. I’m infinitely reachable at devonpearse@aol.com. (Those not willing to be pelted with vegetables need not apply.)