Why Bother?
Robert Swereda
Every so often
when my writing gets stuck, or when a piece I wish to publish gets its 3rd,
4th,10th rejection letter - I begin to wonder why I am
spending so much energy and time on these endeavours and what am I really
getting out of it? Maybe it's time to
wave the white flag and call it quits.
I'm well aware
that the type of writing I create will never end up on any best sellers list.
Most likely, copies of my books or journals my work appears in will end up in
used book stores, and/or collecting dust on the bookshelves of future
ex-girlfriends. The small press publishers that would be interested in my work
have little means for publicity and narrow distribution. Sometimes it feels
that my writing isn't doing any better in print than it is as a file on my
laptop or as scribblings on old receipts, to-do lists, and Post-it notes.
What have I
gained from writing? Financially, from 2005 to present day I have earned the
equivalent of one bi-weekly pay cheque of a minimum wage job. Now and then I will
receive a small sum of money in form of a cheque for a published work. Most of
the time, payment is nothing more than a contributor copy. Then there are
pieces I have had published online and not received anything. Maybe just a
virtual pat on the back.
Meeting a new
person and telling them I'm a writer, sometimes they will ask me things like:
So, what do you write about? ...Poetry? Like Bukowski or something? ...Why
can't I find your book at Chapters/Barnes & Noble? ...Ever read Kerouac? I remember flying home from Ecuador and
having a layover in Houston, Texas. Going through customs at the airport I got
the usual questions a young ruffian travelling alone would get, along with
“What do you do for a living?” When I answered that I was a writer, the customs
agent went on to ask “ Ya, but what`s your real job?” This made me wonder if what I do is
considered just a hobby. Is writing something to do on a Sunday afternoon, in
my pyjamas, there's nothing on tv, and I don't feel like leaving the house.
Might as well play with my electric train set, do the word search in the
newspaper, put a ship in a bottle, paint competition stripes on that plastic
Ford Mustang model, finish the jigsaw puzzle of the Eiffel Tower, or maybe
write a poem.
I'm having a
hard time believing I worked a job I absolutely hated to save funds in order to
take classes at University for a hobby. That I sit in 24hour cafes until
sunrise, chugging dark roast and redbull, pounding away on my laptop,
forgetting to eat and nearly allowing my bladder to burst all over my pants
just so I can transform the image in my brain into text on my computer. I have
put more time and effort into writing projects and feel more dedication to
writing than I have with any type of employment I've had with steady
paycheques.
Possibly, I
have earned some kind of credibility. Meaning, some people have seen my name in
print and “know” me. These people are a very select few, seeing as the small
audience who might be interested, and the formats and resources I have to reach
them in order to get my name out there. (where ever that there
is)
What am I doing
with poetry? Nothing quite unique or innovative. I'm sure my influences are
obvious. I can't say that I am really contributing any ideas that would be seen
as new or outstanding. Some time ago I was involved with editing a literary
journal. After awhile I began to question if I was right for the job. I found a
lot of the submissions the journal received were boring, painful to read or
made me roll my eyes. I would say Yes to maybe 2% of the writing that the
journal received. I thought I was being a hard ass or too picky. I quit the
journal after realizing editing wasn't for me and I don`t wish to be part of a
literary community. I didn't want to be the one giving a stamp of approval on
someone's work, or the jerk that rejects their piece. I would just concentrate
on my own stuff and cross my fingers to get it published.
So, why do I
bother, what's really the point of it all? Why spend my days off from my real
job in front of my computer trying to piece together some flash in my brain?
Why do I roll around in my bed, answering daemon whispers at 3 in the morning,
with my alarm clock set to go off at 7 a.m.?
Why do I make sure I don`t leave the house with out a pen of something
to jot things down?
I want to give
an answer like I dunno, I just work here. Or say that I don`t really
know what I'm doing or why. That if I ever find out, then I`d probably stop
doing it altogether. I know that I don`t
want to say that it's some creative impulse, that writing is something I just
HAVE to do. It's insulting to call it a
hobby, and it doesn't pay bills or buy food so it's not gainful employment
either.
I write out of
self interest. I write what I'd want to read myself. What I wish I could find
in bookstores. It's more about physically doing the work than the actual
outcome. That I am able to project something I have in my skull, through my
fingertips, and manipulate into legible texts. I don't find it to be a fun way
to occupy my free time at all. It's as if
there's a rambunctious child trapped inside my brain and I'm the cranky
grandparent trying to get them to shut up and sit still so I can relax in a
recliner, drink cheap liquor and chain smoke in peace. Maybe it's more like
trying to get rid of a bad cold. Sitting at a desk for hours tapping away on
the keyboard, all jittery and over caffeinated. Laying in bed, feverish and
snotty. I suppose it feels the same.
Why do you
bother?
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