THE JOYS OF WRITING AND TOM WOLFE

 Many writers glorify the art of writing and encourage others to put their thoughts on paper, to develop their ideas, plots, realities, traumas, fears, and fantasies, convinced that writing liberates the mind and brings a deep sense of satisfaction. For them, the act of writing can be a source of almost limitless pleasure and delight.

My own experience has been rather different. My writing is nothing to write home about (pun intended), and I have so few readers that not even my relatives take a peek at my "literary" output. They invariably assure me of their keen interest, only to add that they simply have no time. Steven Pressfield's delightful little book Nobody Wants to Read Your Sh*t fits me to a T.

All this came to mind because I recently came across a remark by Tom Wolfe in Hooking Up, in the chapter "My Three Stooges." He writes: "I can tell you... to write one book is a killer financially, a blow to the base of the skull mentally and physically, hell for your family, a slovenly imposition upon all concerned—in short, an inexcusable performance verging on shameful."

I have adapted Wolfe's words to my own circumstances, of course, to make a far more modest point. Even writing brief blog posts has a way of setting one's nerves on edge, trying one's patience to the limit, and occasionally provoking the ire of family members. I am forever protesting that this is the only thing I know how to do. It may not amount to much, but it is my métier.

Now, you can take it, or leave it.