The experts have warned me that I'm doomed
to failure. The experts have warned me that I'll be lost among the tens of
thousands of other author hopefuls all searching for the same pot of gold at
the same end of the same rainbow: the best-seller list. The experts
have warned me that my books will probably gather more dust than readers.
Well, I
guess I’d better heed their sage advice (after all, they are the experts!), fold up my writing tent, and
take up a more realistic hobby like growing candy canes in my backyard.
Or
perhaps I’ll quote Vinnie Barbarino, TV’s eminent 1970s philosopher/Sweathog: “Up your nose with a rubber hose!”
I don’t care
about the experts. I can’t allow them to take something so
precious—my dream of writing success--away from me. Nor can I allow them to dictate to me. Most importantly, I can't allow them to
affect my writing.
My lifelong
wish has been to succeed as a writer; not just a good writer; not just an
average writer. My Holy Grail is that
golden circle of writing's elite, one of those iconic storytellers whose words
mirror life and reflect it back to the reader--like a prism—in a kaleidoscope
of varying hues and shapes. Sometimes I
worry that my mortality will catch up with me before I'm able to conceive,
develop, and write down all the stories that dominate my imagination at
times. I surely hope that doesn't
happen.
So many
lives out there are—as Thoreau so aptly observed--being lived in silent
desperation. There are perhaps billions
of people out there suffering in silence, fighting private wars against
heartache, pain, disease, misfortune, cruelty, and, in some cases,
themselves. There are so many people out
there for whom getting out of bed in the morning is a major
accomplishment. Rest assured, they have
names, faces, and lives, and are all around us: they could be your co-worker,
your best friend, your neighbor, the clerk at your local retail establishment,
or the person sitting next to you in church.
They could even be a part of your own family.
It is
their stories that I want to tell as succinctly and honorably as my meager
abilities will allow.
I've
always believed that life's most meaningful stories are those of oppression, of
man's inhumanity to man, of fighting losing battles, and of sadness so
paralyzing that dying peacefully in one’s sleep could be considered a blessing. These are tales of inner conflict, of battle,
and of fighting to the last ounce of one's strength. As dark as that sounds, these stories can
be transformed into tomes of overcoming, of victory, of finally beating down
one's personal demons and living life in a productive, fulfilling, and joyous
way. I call them "people stories." And some
creative force I’ll never be able to define drives me to chronicle those
battles and reduce them to words that the rest of us can take into our hearts,
feel, and understand.
It's my
goal to write about ordinary people beating odds that would terrify Las
Vegas. Look around you. Everybody has a story; everybody is a
story. When I write a novel, a tiny
piece of my soul is lovingly tucked between those covers along with my words. I invest thousands of hours in the subtle
nuances—the implications, the innuendos, the double meanings, and the hidden
messages--of a novel. If you promise not
to tell anyone, I'll let you in on a little secret: sometimes I envision myself
living the lives of my characters. Sometimes
I’ll cry as I'm writing; sometimes I’ll laugh hysterically; sometimes I’ll
become a shadowy character standing silently in the background. For me, emotions are the heart, soul, and the
very core of all great writing: panic, joy, anger, love, sorrow, hatred, envy,
loneliness, revenge, despair, and fear all reduced to words and painted on a
page like so much human graffiti.
The deepest
fear of every writer lies in writing a boring book: a book that is so hamstrung
and hog-tied by political correctness, empty rules, meaningless traditions, and
outmoded conventions that its true voice is stifled and choked to the point of rasping
silence.
I ask
you, dear reader: of what possible value is a book that doesn't move you?
Every
word, sentence, paragraph, and chapter of Child
of Privilege—and every other novel for that matter--is there to engage you on
some level. Did reading it bring about feelings of
contentment and relief? Did you feel uneasy? Uncomfortable? Disturbed?
Angry? Were there moments that made
you laugh? Cry? Wonder? Empathize?
EXCELLENT! Then I've succeeded as a writer. On the other hand, if you found my words and
ideas boring, formulaic, predictable, or passive, I sincerely apologize and will
try my damnedest to do better the next time around.
I keep
telling myself that success’s lightning bolt could strike at any time, that
I’ll someday achieve elite writer status, that my impossible dream will
actually come true and my books will indeed claw their way onto the best-seller
list. That's pretty much all I have to
keep me going as a writer. That’s about
all many indie authors have. Some days, it's enough; on other days, however,
it isn't, and I’m sorely tempted on those blue days to chuck it all into a
closet and forget about it.
Looking
back on Child of Privilege, I readily
admit that it’s a violent, disturbing, and frightening story. The feedback I’ve received—for which I am very grateful and humbled—readily
reflects the book’s dark tone.
But
please ask yourself this question: How violent, disturbing, and frightening is
it to be pummeled at any second by somebody living in your home? It’s a sad but horrifying fact that Domestic
Violence is pervasive in our society, undelineated by income, race, culture, or
class. It causes untold misery and
heartache for millions of people and destroys individuals as well as entire
families.
It’s a
classic people story, one I deeply
felt (and still do) needed to be told.
Thus onto Amazon’s shelves came a novel about a lovable debutante serving
as a human punching bag for her mentally-unbalanced and sadistic father. While it saddens me that discomfort and
revulsion will deter some folks from ever reading it, I know I left my best on
those pages. I’ll always be proud of my
literary firstborn Child of Privilege. My conscience as a writer is clear.
The rest,
dear reader, is in your hands.
Writers’
imaginations are abundant with stories both wonderful and repulsive. There are stories about lives productive and
aimless, about fortunes made and lost, about loves found and squandered, and about
the day-to-day battles we all know as "survival." We indie authors live to tell those stories, albeit through occasionally imperfect
prose and sometimes poorly-constructed sentences.
But our
literary hearts are in good places.
We’re
anxious to tell you about the hidden lives unfolding in the next apartment, in the
house across the street, on the other side of the country, and on the other
side of the world.
What
does it cost you? With a trip to your
local bookstore (assuming there is one!) or a log-on to Amazon to buy a
tangible copy or a download, you can purchase your key to the world of people,
stories, and ideas.
A true
bargain if you ask me.
Allow me
to convey to you--through my words--how it feels to ... whatever. Allow me--and other writers out there--to be
your looking-glass onto this huge, crazy world and the people who inhabit
it. I volunteer to act as your conduit
into the thoughts and feelings so keenly felt by the people who surround you
every day.
Yes,
dear reader, I still want to be a writer, an elite writer. With Child
of Privilege, I've already begun that arduous journey. I invite you to join me in exploring those roads less traveled that silently await
us just over the horizon.
There's
so much I want to tell you about. Let's
explore people, places, ideas, and life itself--through the written
word--together.
I’m looking
forward to your company.
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