A Writer's life #1: O vanity, vanity

Part 1 in an occasional series

Photo by Darius Bashar on Unsplash

“You see,”, I said to Elaine as we crossed the road, the drivers in both directions having stopped to let us do so (I was slightly ahead of her). “Being a famous writer, I find that drivers recognise my face from the pages of magazines and stop for me. Or, of course, it could be that, since I’m incredibly handsome and charismatic, drivers think I must be a film star.”

“Or they’re short-sighted”, she replied.

“So”, I continued. “What’s it like being married to someone who is handsome, dynamic, a literary genius feted everywhere, and yet who still manages to remain extremely modest?”

“I don’t know.” She answered.

Ignoring this barb, I changed the subject.

“Do you know, it’s been several hours since I sent in my most recent book review? Yet the editor has not emailed me to thank me for my latest contribution to the literary landscape. I can’t understand it. Perhaps he was so overwhelmed by my erudition that he has been rendered speechless.”

“Hmm.”

Fortunately I was only joking, which I hope you realise. However, there is a certain type of writer who really is bowled over by their own brilliance (as perceived by themselves). When Oscar Wilde said that he had nothing to declare but his genius, I’m not entirely sure he was joking.

I have only ever attended a couple of author conferences, because frankly it was like walking into a room where there were no people, only egos on legs. I’ll never forget one particular woman who, having told me about the television series she’d been headhunted to write and her latest bestseller, asked about me. As I started to tell her, she turned not just her head, but her whole torso in the direction of the room to see if there was someone more interesting to talk to. Oh well, maybe I’m just a boring person.

Funnily enough, it took me years — years! — to finally have the courage, audacity even, to say “I’m a writer” in response to the question “And what do you do?” And then only because Elaine started to introduce me with the words “Terry’s a writer”.

But sometimes I regret doing so, because of the responses I receive. These tend to be one or more of the following:

“Oh. Have you written anything I will have heard of?”

How on earth should I know? I usually say, “Probably not.”

“Cor, it must be wonderful to just sit back and watch the royalties roll in.”

Indeed, I opened my review of Marcus Berkmann’s How to be a writer” with the words, “Excuse me while I check my royalties from the comfort of my hammock. If only.” Whether the editor will retain that beginning, which I admit is not quite of the same calibre as “It is a truth universally acknowledged, etc”, remains to be seen. (That review will be published here once it has been published in the magazine, so look out for that.)

A couple of years ago I was subjected to a lecture by a relative about the unlimited riches that royalties provide — despite all the evidence I presented to the contrary. These days I just don’t bother arguing.

And, of course, the ubiquitous, “Oh really?! Yes, I’m going to write a book one of these days.”

Berkmann suggests asking such people if they’ve ever written anything longer than a note to the milkman, but I think that’s a bit rude. Mind you, it’s also rude to imply that you, who have never done any serious writing in your entire life, who do not even have a blog, believe yourself to be on a par with someone who has been writing and honing their craft for years, reading books, attending workshops, spending hours crafting articles or stories and then watching as the rejections — not the royalties! — roll in.

In my view, a writer is someone who writes, and makes some of their work publicly available. A writer is not someone who says they are “going to” write.

Ah, you see how much that sort of thing annoys me. This article started in a lighthearted manner, and is about to descend into a rant. I have decided to quit before that happens.