My work, my life: some personal stuff

I call myself a writer. What this means is that I write for a living -- freelance advertising copy -- and for pleasure: this blog and novels.

As a novelist, I'm still unpublished, though I've had six agents.

There must be thousands of us out there who devote ourselves to art without getting the recognition of say Ian McEwan, who, if you think about it, is a bourgeois writer who won't survive -- unlike say J.M. Coetzee, whose Waiting for the Barbarians is one for the ages. There are thousands of visual artists who toil away at their canvases, videos, installations, etc. and don't get the recognition of a Bill Viola. I've known a few. You can't swing a paintbrush in Williamsburg without splotching one with Cerulean Blue.

I have great sympathy for all of these artistic toilers in their private vineyards. (But no sympathy for would-be screenwriters. That's just so much BS. Art? Hell no. They're thinking money. Fuck me with a story arc and a second-act reversal.)

I started writing novels in 1989, five so far (subjects: the freedom struggle in South Africa, the NYC fashion business, the sexcapades of two women, the adventures of a family of foxes, the U.S. as a near-future theocracy).

I'm pretty good at novel-writing. I know, because I've received extremely flattering rejection letters, which reject for market reasons, not reasons of quality. I'd say my South African saga comes close to great. Now I've started a novel about a child soldier in Africa, the first of a trilogy of very serious novels, the sort of stuff you write to get into Nobel Prize company. Excruciatingly ambitious. Hey, I can dream.

What happens to those of us who don't "make it"? Penny Arcade once told me she knows women performance artists who don't get recognition, and around the age of 40, she says, "they go crazy."

I feel protected by an unshakable belief in my ability. I also have an absolute belief that if I don't succeed with serious work, I could write a fine thriller, say about the war in Iraq, that will get bought and open the door for serious stuff. It's something a writer can do, unlike a visual artist, for whom there isn't a middlebrow outlet, only the highbrow path, while novelists can write potboilers and musicians can play rock 'n roll. Not that rock 'n roll can't be art.

Anyway, we would-be arty types need the day job. I've been doing copywriting freelance since 1999. Before then I worked full-time. I had a few chances to become famous in the ad business, but screwed them up. It can take decades before the patina of maturity gilds the rambunctiousness of some late-adolescent male psyches.

There must be thousands of us who are too immature or timid to firmly grab the chances we get for success.

In 2000, the ad business started shrinking. I'm amazed I've survived. Sometimes I don't earn enough to pay taxes. I've rarely been to the theater these last six years, an unrequited passion. But I can pay the rent. I have more than enough clothes and a great computer.

There must be millions of us whose lot has not improved, even though they say the economy has.

Back in the 80s, I was married, made a ton of money working full-time, and lived in an 8-room apartment. Then I got divorced, and took off four years to write my first novel. I've never been well-off since, except for a brief spurt of actual wealth in the stock-market craziness of 1999-2000.

There must be millions out there who are well-off, yet only moderately fulfilled, if at all.

I'm extremely fulfilled, and somewhat ridiculously upbeat and happy, despite a taste for melancholy, which recedes more and more. I still like sad music, though, as well as the cello.

Most importantly, in terms of happiness, I've outgrown a debilitating mental disease -- bipolarity -- that fucked me up all my life, until I was diagnosed and started taking lithium, which I don't need anymore. The old brain chemistry got stabilized somewhere along the line. Being bipolar was a total bitch. I had depressions that lasted two to three years. Imagine not smiling, at all, for 700 days.

There are millions out there whose lives are blasted, or semi-blasted, by mental disease. Not all of them find the right meds. Few of them get as lucky as I did, and actually outgrow their affliction. Many of the afflicted are artists. Perhaps their neuroses give them the weird courage to be arty. They're outside already, so it's an easy leap to the outsider occupation of frustrated artist. There's an irony here somewhere. I think I've escaped it. Since I've outgrown my condition, my life has been one long sigh of relief.

I don't know how many thousands can say that. (Maybe those women who've escaped abusive relationships.)

If I do get published, I will probably be moderately well-off again, because two or three of my books are Hollywood-friendly, especially the latest one.

What I wonder is this: will I lose my caution-about-money overnight? Will I buy hardcover books again instead of using the library? Will I start taking taxis instead of the subway? Will I go to nice restaurants where the food is shitty and convince myself I've had a good meal? Will I pay $90 to see a musical I don't enjoy very much? One can spend a lot of money on crap: the curse of a disposable income.

There are millions of us who have to be cautious about money, and who are only a paycheck away from penury.

I do know this: when I have disposable income again, I will be much more social. It's amazing how much it costs to have friends in NYC. There are friends I don't see because I can't afford to. This is not South Africa, where I grew up, and where socializing is a breeze: there one can turn up at a friend's house on a weekend without calling ahead, and just lie around, drinking the beer.

I will also travel: Prague, Vienna, Scandinavia, India, China, South America. Most other places I've already been, like Paris and London.

There are millions out there who can't afford to travel. Millions who've never been outside the countries they were born in.

I think I might stay in some countries long enough to learn the language. I still want to learn French, besides learning to play the piano. These are my two remaining time-consuming ambitions (besides wanting a successful literary career).

There are millions of us who die without having fulfilled ambitions we've had all our lives.

I wouldn't mind learning German, too. It's the language of philosophy. The thing about knowing German or French is that you get to read many more books from other languages, because great novels in other languages are translated into French, but not that often into English.

There are millions of English-speakers out there who have no idea that speaking the world's premier language puts them in a state of cultural isolation.

This is my most personal post ever. I have no idea what came over me. I see I've omitted a big topic: relationships. I don't see myself blogging about that. I have friends who read this blog. I wouldn't want them to read about themselves. But I will post about my ex-wife, because she died this year (cancer).

And when I get published, there'll be an interesting journey. I'll be happy to blog you along for the ride of what I hope will be a big brass bed on fat, sturdy wheels.

So far, thanks for being around. I wish you guys would comment more, and to those who do, many thanks. Sometimes I don't respond, for which I apologize. You know who you are. Special thanks to you.

PHEW. Stepping out from behind the blogger's mask. Quite unlike me. What happened?

There must be billions of us out there who sometimes surprise ourselves -- to our modest, and I hope dignified, delight.