Letter from a Writer to a Non-Writer
I am motivated by recent, recurring events to write you this letter in the hopes of shedding some light on The Life of a Writer, and gaining some understanding. The following describes the latest of many interactions with Non-Writers:
Somewhere deep in the misty cockles of my consciousness, an urgent, repetitive tone radiated through the swirling galaxy of my thoughts. In reality, it was three oâclock in the afternoon on a Tuesday, and the phone was ringing â again â for the third time in less than an hour. I groaned as the tail end of a train of thought retreated its way back, back, into the recesses of my mind, never again to see the light of day. The phone continued to ring.Â
Sighing, I pushed my chair away from the dining room table, where I sat with my laptop, attempting to write. I decided to end this, once and for all, by disconnecting the house phone, equal parts frustrated by the unnecessary interruption and baffled by the notion of someone using a land line to reach someone else in this day and age. As the phone began to ring once more, I allowed my wretched curiosity to take over: I answered.
The voice on the other end was frantic and harried. âWhat are you doing?â the called rushed, sounding winded. Before I could even say hello or receive any sort of introduction, she barreled onward.Â
âBecause I need a ride,â she continued rapid-fire, speaking in a staccato rhythm not unlike iambic pentameter. The caller was my cousin, and she having another âemergency,â which was cousin-speak for âdramatic yet easily avoidable personal situation, which may only be rectified with the involvement of others.â In short, a Colossal Waste of Time was just about to commence.
âIâm writing,â I answered firmly.
âOh,â she responded with a brief moment of sanity before pressing the issue, detailing all of the reasons why I âneededâ to stop everything I was doing in order to chauffer her wherever she needed to go Right NOW. Her argument was anemic, but her performance was compelling.
âSo, you see? You understand now?â she wheezed in conclusion. âIâm glad I caught you when you werenât busy working or something.â
I pulled the phone away from my head, held it out in front of me, and stared incredulously into the holes of the handsetâs mouthpiece. Had I really heard correctly? Did she just ask me for a ride to nowhere, to meet the Wizard of Oz for all I knew, because I âwasnât busy working or something?â Not busy working? No, I must be mistaken. I wanted to tell her that maybe if she was âworking or something,â she wouldnât have time for this weekâs episode of Days of Our Lives. Instead, she was Young and Restless, and I held my tongue.
âI am busy,â I quietly reminded her. âIâm writing.â
âOh, wellâŚumâŚI mean, if thatâs busy for you, then, I understand,â she stuttered.
I was incensed at her insinuation that because I was writing, I couldnât possibly be busy, and infuriated by the thought that the words âwritingâ and âbusyâ were not synonyms. Further, to speculate whether or not writing was considered âworkingâ by others was unconscionable blasphemy. I bid her farewell, wished her good luck on her mission, and returned angrily to my laptop.
How dare she? I wondered in disbelief. Doesnât she know? I sighed again and returned my fingertips to the keyboard. Unfortunately, I began to realize, her view is one commonly held and accepted by others. Hence the composition this letter.
A popular Volkswagen commercial tells viewers that, âOn the road of life, there are passengers, and there are drivers.â  The familiar ad concludes by affirming, carpe diem-style, that drivers are wanted. The world we live in is similarly divided: there are Writers, and there are Non-Writers. For Writers, it often feels as though we are outnumbered by Non-Writers who just donât get it.
Writers and Non-Writers do share a great deal of common ground â both have work, families, and responsibilities; both are juggling too many commitments and dropping too many balls; both wonder if (not when) they will ever catch a break. As a Writer, I am doubly doomed. My day consists of work, which I define as any activity other than writing which pays my bills and occupies my writing hands for the majority of the day. The other half of my day is spent on my lifeâs work, which I define as my calling, my true and sole purpose/gift/downfall in this earthly life, rendering any and all forms of work tedious and unfulfilling. Yet, work is an evil necessary to support my lifeâs work. The goal of any writer, of course, is to mesh the two, so that there is no distinction between oneâs work and oneâs life work, and to eliminate the need for work by drawing income from oneâs (life) work.
This is easier said than done. In order to be successful as a writer, one must have many things: faith, hope, a prayer (or ten million), patience, time, and time management skills. Many say that itâs not what you know, but who you know, that it helps to have industry connections. (Iâll let you know how that goes, if I ever make any). Above all, one must be able to produce a properly edited manuscript containing within its pages A Good Story, unless, of course, one is a reality TV star. In which case, you can write anything at all because someone will publish it,  people will buy it, read it, trash-talk it on Facebook, and otherwise tear it apart, utilizing hashtags such as â#newcoasterâ at the end of their posts. But it wonât matter, because you are celebrity, everyone already paid you even more money to waste their time reading and trashing the trash you probably didnât even write. And you can add to your list of stellar accomplishments the fact that you have published a ânovel.â
 The Writerâs struggle doesnât end there â finally completing A Good Story is only the first chapter of publishing. In order to get published, one must then compose a succinct yet compelling query letter, in which one solicits (begs) a literary agent to shop his or her (lifeâs) work to a publisher (God) in the hopes that one publisher (God) will give the Writerâs work the chance of a lifetime (miracle granted). J.K. Rowling, it is said, underwent this painful please-publish-me process no less than forty-six times before achieving worldwide fame and fortune.
In between all of this, the working and the life-working, the writing and the re-writing, there is Life, and Life is busy. There are cars to drive, beers to pour, meals to cook, laundry to wash, diapers to change, hair to brush. And in Life there lies Inspiration, at precisely the moment when the Writer must function as a Non-Writer, put down the pen, and work. The rare opportunity of free time, then, is one which must be cherished and maximized in order to take advantage of Lifeâs Inspiration.
So no, Beloved Cousin, I cannot give you a ride, even though it is an âemergency.â No, Best Friend, I cannot pick you up from JFK at â gasp! â three a.m. aka Peak Writing Hour. No, I cannot take your mother to the doctor or your dog to the groomer. I am Writing. I am (life) Working. Before I was life-working, I have actually been writing (mentally) all day, every day, although my hands were occupied not with a pen but by Work, the bill-paying task du jour. Please understand that this, too, is work, even if it is not currently paid work. Therefore, please respect my time both at work and at (life) work. Just as I cannot bombard you with ridiculous requests while you are working, please be mindful and refrain from such interruptions. I am not selfish; I am not choosing my âhobbyâ over you. I am simply working. And God (publisher)-willing, may I always be.