I love to write. Well, let me rephrase that. I’d love to write. But it needs practice, like every other hobby, skill or job. And unfortunately people like me under-rate practice to a dangerous extent.
When I was young(er), I wanted to be anyone literary. English professor, writer, journalist, column writer what have you. Too bad the blogger profession didn’t exist back then or that’d have been on my list too. Well, it’d have been achievable anyway.
As much as people detest (or pretend to detest) the changes brought about by technology, they cannot deny the numerous benefits. For example, people who want to write can finally share their musings with the world without going through the oft-possible heartbreak by literary agents, publishers and media. Your work is directly in the hands of people who decided they wanted to read it and who may decide your ideas, your creativity is something they’d be interested in following. That’s a pretty huge responsibility!
But on the flip side, quality is often sacrificed for quantity (for eg.take this post. Just kidding. This is an excellent piece of write-up. Read on!)
So when I am asked if I’d rather be Lord Dunsany or G.R.R Martin, Mervyn Peake or E.L James (even though that comparison caused me physical pain as I typed it), I’ll be greedy and say I want to be J.R.R Tolkien or J.K. Rowling. As beautiful the writings of Lord Dunsany and Mervyn Peake, they remain the choice of a few maverick readers. Tolkien and Rowling are rare successes made possible by sound writing, great exposure through movies and great timing. That would really be a job for the literary fairy, if I wished for it! So if I have to resort to vulgarity, obvious gimmicks and cheap language to sell my books, I’d rather remain anonymous, unknown. I’d like to write something that would invoke goosebumps in the reader with the pleasure of a finite story and its subplots, the play on words, the exoticism of a created language, the refined prose and sublime poetry. So while kudos to the success of those who got away with writing so little of substance, I say thanks but no thanks. As much as I’d love to make millions while teasing readers about my imminent death and potential unwritten endings to my story, I’d love to find those chosen few (or in all optimism those millions) who’ll bring my writings alive every time they speak of it and who will collect every edition and re-read my work on bright summer afternoons and cozy, snowy days.