The closet is full...

There are still too many characters in my closet and they want out. These are characters I have created with the sweat of my imagination, nurtured and pandered to, over a number of books that are still gathering dust on the back shelves. I can't blame them, I would want out too. Bravely or not so bravely, face the light of public opinion, take on the slings and arrows...


Hey--wait just one minute! It's the admiration and respect I'm fishing for. Had I not always said that I write only for those who like my books? Let the others find happiness elsewhere. So, I want to grow fat on praise, not ducking criticism and invectives. But how had I reached this point?

At first it was writing just for myself, to see if I could and had I the stamina to follow through. As this went on, more and more the writing displaced time from other activities, and attracted attention. I found people peering over my shoulder. "What're you writing?"

"Oh nothing. Just a few idle thoughts." But how many times can one get away with such a lame excuse? Eventually, there came a time for me to confess, "I'm a writer, I think." After three complete manuscripts, I had to allow that it was likely true: I was a writer.

Writing is addictive. Did anyone tell you that? At least my kind of writing is, giving free range to the imagination, crating my own little microcosm. Of course a part of me is in every character I created and I draw vicarious pleasure from their victories, suffer their setbacks and disappointments. Yes, writing can be a rush, the drug of my choice.

However, little by little, writing was not enough. The initial, quiet satisfaction grew into an ambition: having climbed one mountain, I found one even higher behind it. Now I wanted to become an AUTHOR.

Query letters followed, and I waited in the silence that ensued. It seemed like there were enough authors out there already and there was no room for more. I persisted a while, investing my frustration in yet another book. This blog followed, but my "garden of words" soon grew stale with neglect as my time was siphoned off by the writing, now out of control. I was a full fledged addict, I had to face that. Nothing gave me more pleasure than pounding out my characters on the keyboard. It was so easy and convenient. I didn't need a pusher to peddle me stuff to get high on, my mind was spinning off scenarios faster than my computer with its lightning speed could digest.

But, then the closet grew full, of tomes of complete manuscripts that still need to be massaged and polished into final form. I had a mountain of work to do. As every writer will tell you, it's not about writing, more about seemingly endless rewriting. with the first draft the creative instinct had been satisfied, the characters are fully drawn, the plot line nailed down tight, needing only to be tweaked. Now this was a beast of a different color. And as easy the first draft was, the subsequent reworks are the writer's burden. It seemed that the mountain sides were steeper that they first looked. Still one perseveres, sends another pigeon into the void, not to be seen again. I think I have been turned down by every available agent and publisher within arm's reach. Of course it was not my fault that they couldn't appreciate the genius of my work, some perversity of their character closed the doors to me.

Eventually, having grown tired of waiting for the world to discover me, I turned to self-publishing and got 10 books out of 18 online. Thank God for the option! But, with the ease of doing so, I found myself threading water in a big, big ocean, out of sight of land. Everybody it seemed had or has the same idea, and my offerings were swallowed in the swell of this tsunami of outpourings.

But the numbers for my books are climbing, not in any viral sense, but in a modest manner.

However, my original problems remain. My closet is full, and servicing them has become a chore. I'm itching to start something new, but I got to get a few more books out the door. So my creatures are clamoring, invading my dreams and waking me out of my sleep. What happened? I used to be a night person, but the earth has shifted on its axis, reversing polarity and now I get up around 5:00 am to make room for something new.

Then there is another thing that they never told you about when you started. Writing was only the rising dawn over the promised land, there was then the great quest to be published, and then... then the PROMOTING... But I'll write about that some other time, as this blog is already too long.

Dear Reader, I applaud your persistence for getting this far. But these words were not meant for you. This is a dumping ground for my thoughts that clutter up my mind. There I feel much better, thank you. Paul Telegdi, writing at www.seeWordFactory.com .