On writing and mousetraps . . .

My name is Steven and I’m a failed writer.

I’m taking a little heat for the title of this blog. The first comment I received (from among comments that number in the ones) was a variation of, “How dare you? I would never disparage myself. You need a therapist. I hate you.” I assumed that the respondent had utilized the SCALE approach (Standard Congressman’s Approach to Legislative Evaluation). The SCALE approach requires an elected official to read only the title of a bill that will affect the lives of millions. He or she then calls a press conference. After an opening statement that equates the proposed law to baby-killing and/or terrorism, the media are allowed to ask questions with all answers from the politician incorporating a comparison of Obamacare to the Bolshevik Revolution.

So . . . here’s the thing. This blog is not meant to discourage writers. It is not meant to glorify failure. It’s a satire — like Jonathan Swift’s 1729 essay, A Modest Proposal, in which he suggested that the Irish might solve their hunger and overpopulation problems by consuming their own children. He wasn’t serious either. I know this, because I’m Irish-American and none of my ancestors were appetizers.

I began this blog a few weeks ago, shamelessly borrowing part of my title from Alcoholics Anonymous, an exemplary organization dedicated to helping people escape addiction. Essentially, they are fighting alcoholism just like I’m fighting the concept of “failed writers.” My goal is to prevent writers from feeling like failures. I’ll admit that the title of the blog is a bit misleading, the logic of my intent ostensibly inverted at first glance. However, please understand that I am the father of five children, all of whom were successfully shepherded through their teenage years. Four of the five were teenagers at the same time, subjecting me to a daily barrage of inverted logic. I am now an expert, having been trained by professionals, and can submit with considerable authority that Failed Writers Anonymous is not inverted logic. It’s a support group for people who feel their creative efforts only have value if credentialed by others. It’s also a way to provide a few tips on writing and publishing, all of which I’ve stolen from other sources. This is Rule #6, aspiring failed writers: In the words of Lionel Trilling, “Amateurs imitate. Artists steal!”

Artists don’t always treat one another very well. Elizabeth Gilbert, the author of Eat Pray Love, discusses this in a wonderful TED talk. Once an unpublished diner waitress devastated by rejection letters, she has used the pulpit granted by success to encourage artists to support one another. Good for her. She has escaped the throes of failure and now wants to be a sponsor, pulling other failed writers from the swirling maelstrom of other people's opinions. Many years ago I noodled around Hollywood for a couple of years, writing sketch comedy. I met a lot of people trying to break into show business: comics, actors, singers. One of the singers was a girl with an extraordinary voice. At the time, the best gig she had landed was singing “for only ninety-nine cents” in a Jack-In-The-Box commercial. She wanted to be in the movies but never made it, becoming just another girl who sang like an angel, yet felt like a failure. I hope she's heard Ms. Gilbert’s talk. I hope she’s still singing.

Artists come in many forms. I have a friend who sets tile for a living. He doesn’t consider his work to be artistry, but it is. The girl who sang like an angel was an artist as is Elizabeth Gilbert. It can be tough. Artists are sensitive and the world can be a bitch for sensitive people. We also ply our trades in a business environment where not all widgets are necessarily marketable. One might design the most beautiful mousetrap ever, then find that the public is unwilling to pay $100 for a mousetrap. Perhaps more to the point, you might design a mousetrap that simply doesn’t work very well, yet are compelled to continue building mousetraps by something inside that is both elusive and inexplicable; something as instinctive and obligatory as breathing. I don't know why people build mousetraps any more than I understand why I sit down each day to tap out a few hundred words. I do know that, like all things magically elusive, the chase is often more satisfying than the prize.