Epilogue

Okay, who cried when Ol’ Yeller died?

For the moment, I am free.

Not because I really want to be, but—well, like Ol’ Yeller, my master stuck a rifle through the fence posts and brought my barking to end.

But I do actually feel free, the truth be told. After thirty some-odd years of dreaming and writing, I reached the Summit. I was published, and experienced the full-blown zippidy freakin’ doo dah of planting that flag. Finally, I got to tick that box.

But I learned something along the way.

I liken it back to the mountain climber concept: If you read Jon Krakauer’s brilliant book Into Thin Air, you will discover a very curious thing. When climbers summit Everest-- the undisputed heavyweight of vertical challenges-- very rarely do they experience elation. There is no end zone dance. There is no triumphant release. Meaning of life revelations are rare to the point of nonexistence. In reality, most climbers share only one feeling as they stand there: Exhaustion. And exhausted they turn, and begin the perilous descent from the place that gave them no joy.

Their joy, I think, comes from hanging around with other mountain climbers, because fellow climbers “get it.” Together they bond over the joy of the joyless summit. They share stories of climbs fair and foul, and revel in each other’s tales. They talk the lingo, and laugh about things you and I would never understand. They are brothers of the ascent, and they share a bond of sweat and danger. And it is this bond—this understanding of shared suffering—that calls them back to the mountain, time and again. Like soldiers in combat, they do it “for the man to their left and their right.” They are in a very tiny, very exclusive club… a club even Bill Gates can’t buy his way into.

But what of published authors?

Where is our club?

Where can I go to laugh and get drunk and lament what a crap sandwich the rookie-year is? Where can I find a fellow wordsmith who will commiserate on the hours-invested versus net-income dilemma?

I can’t, of course-- other authors are at home, enjoying panic attacks as they franticly work on a manuscript that will please their agent. It is a walk I walk alone.

I could go to some writer’s conferences, and bask in the glow of admiration that comes from wearing a Knighted by King Author t-shirt, and opine about my “next book” and my book tour and my email from fans… but to do so would be unfair—struggling writers want to hear tales of true glory and grail-finding, not Monty Python quips set to the sounds of clattering coconuts. And quips and coconuts is all I have to offer.

Sensei X stated in no uncertain terms that these musings will never be a book because “no one cares.”

I disagree.

I think there are millions of hopeful, struggling writers out there who’d like to hear about at least one man’s experience. After all, it’s a virtual wall of silence on the topic, and methinks this particular group would like to know—they are, after all, the same group that’s spending hundreds of millions of dollars every year on writers’ conferences where agents and authors subsist on free drinks, shrimp cocktails, and pocket money-- all the while immersed in an orgiastic ego-massage that would make Caligula blush.

So maybe these struggling writers need to hear just one veteran explain the experience of life on the arid plain-- the tales of hunger and thirst and sprints and, finally, the capture and kill. If they are like me, they are haunted by their need to make that kill, and feed on the blood of validation through publication. Perhaps tortured is a better word. And maybe—just maybe-- it will exorcise that demon when they hear me say: Fellow Cheetahs, hear me: I caught that gazelle, but it was hollow.

I also believe there are tens of thousands of my fellow Rookie Authors out there, wondering, “Is this it?”

Like me they are wandering around in a daze, wondering if they can even bring it up with fellow authors. Does admitting you’re baffled ban you from the Club? The Club with lots of members, who never meet and never talk and never slap each other on the back?

And so the fantasy ends: For the past thirty years, the dream of being an author has been my secret fantasy. She’s played the Homecoming Queen, and I’ve been the fat kid who played the tuba in the band. She rode on the trunk of a convertible and waved to the crowd, and I cleaned my grubby glasses for a better look. She graduated Valedictorian, and I watched from the back row as she delivered her brilliant speech.

Then, years later, it happened. I’d lost the baby fat and my face had cleared up and I was playing sax in a band at cool club in SoHo. And there she was, looking as hot as ever, giving me the eyes. At the break I chatted her up, and my publication fantasy let me know the night wasn’t going to end when we played our last set.

If only it had.

The ensuing encounter was lifeless. She ate my last slice of pizza. She bitched about my dog. She snored. And the next morning, on the way out, she asked for two hundred dollars.

Maybe someday I’ll recall her fondly, but for now? Not so much.

It’s very possible that the entire experience I’ve described will sound like fun to an aspiring writer-- and it’s also possible that same writer will see where I fell short, and come up with great ideas to fill in those gaps. I hope so.

But for me, writing is work. For two decades it has long been my profession, not a hobby… and I don’t know many folks willing to carry on their profession for a per-hour income that falls short of minimum wage. Especially if it entails working that profession for a year without any feedback to see if the work will even be accepted.

Life is short enough as it is, and I simply no longer have the desire to spend my time convincing the appropriate players that my writing offers a fresh and creative perspective. They are a business, and as a business they want manuscripts on topics that book buyers are known to buy. They want columnists, journalists and mega-bloggers with a built-in fan base. They want bestselling authors to type faster. They want celebrities. They want writers who think writing a book all-but-titled Harriett Pottor sounds like time well spent. They want tell-alls that embarrass our heroes and celebrities.

And I can’t blame them! They are a business, not a non-profit designed to discover new voices. In the exact same way I don’t want to write if there’s no payoff, they don’t want to print books if there’s no payoff. It took me a while to get it, but finally I do.

But… the good news is that you might be the writer who pens the book that launches to the moon. It happens several times a year. That’s a fact.

It’s just not me.

At the moment.

But… maybe there’s a way to combine my truthy-humor writing style with cooking, and spin in some snippets of the history about the dishes I describe. Maybe work in a sex angle, like which recipes generate multiple orgasms while erasing stretch marks. Then segue into a storyline where a chef gets murdered and a smokin’ hot detective-chick arrives on the scene to crack the case. Maybe I could add in some dysfunctional, oppressed characters that would catch Oprah’s eye, or insult conservative Southerners and score a hot review from The New York Times.

This will be great! It will be part-novel, part-non-fiction, part humor, part--

Damn.

I just said I wasn’t going to do this again…