Five Minutes

Growing up gifted

I hate the word “gifted”, but I don’t know what other word to use to convey the place I was when I was younger. I had some of the highest grades on standardized exams that had ever been seen in my school district. If I got a B in a class, it was because I marked questions wrong that were right, so as not to be caught daydreaming. I saw it as nothing special, and in fact all my brains did was make me a pariah.

And, of course, it also made me the teachers’ darling. I grew accustomed to the praise I got from them. In high school in particular, I started receiving honors and scholarships, and seeing my name in the paper was a secret thrill. I was a big fish in a small pond. Further, I didn’t have to do anything to get praise but be myself.

Coming down to earth

This continued through my undergraduate years — though I wasn’t winning scholarships by then, at least I was on the honor roll and the Bronze Tablet for my grades (it’s a University of Illinois thing — I was in the top 2% of my class.)

Then I became a professor in a university with many people whose abilities equalled or excelled mine. There are no rewards for doing one’s job. But those of us who became addicted to praise, like myself, are left to wonder where our value is.

Five minutes of fame

I am growing to understand that I had my five minutes of fame in high school. It demanded little of me, just an accident of birth. There are so many others like me who were just as accidentally lucky — good looks, the right Instagram post, a darling cat. Hard work may help, but it is the lucky moment that launches someone into the limelight. I think of the actors in the science fiction genre who will never become well-known stars outside of those who watch science fiction, the people who work in jobs that we assume are unskilled, all the people who are unrewarded for their excellent work.

I’ve had that praise. It’s time for me to give up the limelight.

Giving Up Cherished Dreams

Dreams of being an author

I went into this thought of being an author figuring I would find an agent, then a publisher, and get a five-figure advance and royalties. My ex-boyfriends (all geeks) would see my name in the science fiction section of the bookstore and be forced to have some respect for me. I could quit my day job.

The sobering reality

The truth of the matter is that the scenario for writers is far less rosy. According to the Authors Guild 2018 poll:

Median income for all authors (full vs part, traditional vs self-published) was $6080 in 2017
Median income for full-time authors for all writing-related activities, however, was $20,300
Self-published authors earned less than traditionally published authors
Publishers are paying lower advances to authors who are not celebrity or leading authors

And then there’s the part where Amazon has pretty much taken over the bookselling and publishing market, likely pushing all these trends. And the fact that the typical self-publisher will sell only 250 books.

This is a lot to absorb. If I’m going to be an author (I already am), I have to have honest and good reasons to do so. The biggest thing I need to do is dispel my illusions:

I will not make a lot of money doing this.
Most of my friends will not have read my work.
My work will likely not sit on a bookshelf.
I may never get picked up by an agent or be traditionally published.
No matter how much effort I put into being a published author, I may never sell more than 250 books.

This is all sobering information. If I write, I have to write for a reason other than external validation of sales and recognition, because I may not get those no matter how well I write. I will never be able to support myself this way, although it might be a nice addition to retirement income.

I have to write for myself. I have to write for the love of it. I have to write for the desire to improve my art, because I can’t count on being the shining exception to the rule.

Writing vs being a writer

I ran into a quote from Alex Haley, author of Roots, that I wish I could find again. It pointed out that it was better to love writing than to love being a writer, because when you love being a writer, you’re in love with the trappings of fame and money.

And that’s what happened to me — I fell in love with chasing publication, with chasing a vision of fame. And, not finding it, I wanted to let my writing go.

I’m finally starting to get back into writing again. Just in time to go on a trip where I’m not going to get much done.

I’m still working on a short story, Hands, about one of my characters in Prodigies. It’s a background story, one of those “what influenced this character” ideas, but it also reflects some of today’s issues with white nationalism. I have the bare bones all written (ok, mostly written) and put together into a Word file, and I now have to smooth and develop and finesse it. A lot like sitting over a finished first draft of a novel, but shorter. I’ve already written another from Prodigies, although it’s more of a character sketch, called Tanabata.

Short stories aren’t as “sexy” as novels. They don’t become national best-sellers, and they don’t make money. But they get my name out there, and they can give little drops of affirmation.

I’m also packing up for a road trip — by train. It’s my annual moulage gig for New York Hope. I think I’ve mentioned this before. But train travel is fun for writing — either in the observation lounge where the scenery passes by, or in the sleeper car.

Dream or Let Go?

Sometimes I still dream of success.

To me, success in writing looks like:

Finding an agent
Getting a publishing contract
Having a readership and modest sales
Interacting with others on my blog

Given that I haven’t achieved the first yet, and given that the other goals are probably dependent on that first goal. I don’t know if I’m ever going to get there.

This is why I’m considering self-publishing, but I have so many questions about it, such as:

If you self-publish, will people always put a figurative asterisk by the word “author” after your name?
How do you get the word out about your novel?
If my novel doesn’t get accepted by agents, is there really a chance that readers will gravitate to it in self-published format?
Can one get famous (ok, somewhat well-known) self-publishing?
Will I have to spend all my time promoting my book instead of writing?

These questions may be proof that I’m still dreaming and doing a lot of assuming. I’m assuming that my books are good enough to find a following rather than languishing on a virtual shelf somewhere, which is a lot to assume even if I get traditionally published.

My affirmation cards keep saying that I have great ideas, the time is not right, let go of expectations, to the point that the same cards keep showing up in readings.

Our American society says that we should hold on to our dreams. Buddhism, on the other hand, suggests attachment — even to a dream — causes unhappiness. Which shall I do — hold on or let go?

Autographs

I asked for an autograph from a friend yesterday. I may or may not have gotten it, depending on whether the Instagram post was meant for me.

What my friend doesn’t understand (even if he’s given it some thought) is that I did not ask for the autograph because he was an up-and-coming actor, but because he was my friend.

I don’t like the whole concept of autographs. They disturb my Quaker sensibilities by putting someone else on a pedestal — “I’m so honored to have breathed the same air as you!” They treat famous people like trading cards — “Hey, I got Ryan Reynolds!” “Oh yeah, I have Elvis Presley! Mine’s much more awesome!” And finally, because I’m arrogant, I want to respect the person and want them to respect me as well.

That being said, I think there are reasons for autographs, and I actually have a few. Most of my autographs have been from children’s book illustrators, because I admire the art of translating ideas into pictures. I also knew the illustrators in question, and I wanted them to know I admired their work. I have an autograph from Morgan Spurlock, because I admired his documentary series 30 Days, and because he showed me appreciation for being a college professor.

In other words, I find the relationship between artist and audience not to be that of the little audience in front of the huge stage (ask me how I feel about stadium concerts!) but of connection between a performer or a writer and their audience.

Or maybe I just want to adopt creative people into my life.

PS: Thank you for the virtual autograph. If you didn’t mean it for me, thanks anyhow.

The Star and the Street Lamp

He points at the star —
“That star was me once,
high on accolades,
floating on publicity,
viewed by telescopes.”

I point at the street lamp —
“Is it worth less, then,
to be the gleam of light
in the kitchen window?
Is it worth less
to help some poor soul
find his way home?”

He said he’d think about it.

I hope he finds his way home.

Day 2 Camp NaNo — and reflections on fame and weirdne.

Today, on the second day of Camp NaNo, here are the searches I performed (which is why I only wrote abut 1000 words in two hours):
Japanese girl’s names
Krakow to Gdansk train schedule
Translate to Polish: “How dare you molest that young man”

I might have missed a couple.

*********
I don’t ever want to be famous. As an American, this statement is almost sacrilege. I want to be competent at what I do. I want people to read my message. But I do not want to be famous. This is why:

Fame costs too much.

What do I mean by that? I mean that I am what one might call neurodiverse. What that means is that my brain does not see the world the way other people’s do. People termed neurodiverse include 1) people on the autism spectrum, 2) people with mental health disorders, and 3) people with cognitive differences. (My classmates in school believed me to be 1) and 3); my doctor has diagnosed me as 2) ).

People who are neurodiverse are often termed “weird”. I have been termed “weird”, although nowadays that’s tempered by “intelligent”. This is what people call “weird”: even with medicine, I come off as exuberant and a little mystical. I dream books. I talk to dragonflies. I fall in love all the time but ask nothing of it. I want to learn your stories, all of you. I love everyone. Everything positive, nerdy, inspiring amuses me.

Sometimes, even with my medication, I can get depressed. I can think I’m the most unworthy person in the world and want to disappear, and nothing anyone says will change that.

Fame costs too much. Why?

Hiding who I am to look “normal” costs me. It wraps me in a bundle of “not-okayness”. Can you imagine my exuberance peeking through in an administration job, or a corporate job? I already get looked at askance when I giggle in a Faculty Senate meeting because I’m enchanted with a new project. I would promise more than I could deliver in a layoff because I would hurt for those people. I would not lose weight to have a professional photo taken, and I would not try to look my age. I would want to have that picture taken with one of my cats. I would fight tooth and nail to stay approachable. I would talk to the dragonfly in your presence and explain why I had.

People can look at neurodiverse me and say, “Wow, she’s a little out there.” (This has happened). They can call me the R-word (this has happened). They can say, “If she became a professor, so can I” (I hope they’ve said this). They can say, “She’s weird in a good sort of way” (on a course evaluation, honestly).

They can say, “She’s like me, so I don’t have to be a corporate or fashion or administrative drone”. This is true, but you may have to give up fame to accept your humanity.