A Solitary Profession

Writing is a lonely, solitary profession. Perhaps that's why I've spent countless hours writing in cafes, restaurants and Micky-D's, pencil in hand, ruthlessly destroying the pristine blankness of a sheet of paper. The buzz of humanity in the background calmed me somehow.

Take my time writing at sidewalk cafes in Paris, for example. I learned more about writing there than I did in the lecture halls of both Hampton and Howard universities. So, I challenge you to write, folks. The more you write, the better you will become.

And why do we write? We write because we have to. We write because our souls dry-up if we don't. We write to have that union, that completion that words, stories and characters bring us. We write because it gives us an insight into human beings--and into ourselves.

Signed my book contract today!

After weeks of nervous waiting, my contract with Second Wind Publishing was ready to sign. As I put pen to the dotted line, memories of many lonely nights (before Vonnie) staring at a blank computer screen came to mind. It's been a long journey from concept to contract.

I would never have gotten to today without my agent, Dawn Dowdle of Blue Ridge Literary. She edited my manuscript to the last period. Most importantly she believed in The Phantom Lady of Paris and kept pushing it until she found a publisher who believed in the Phantom Lady, too. Vonnie also played a large part with her encouragement and praise. As I wrote and rewrote, she brought cups of coffee and light lunches to me in the den, pressing a kiss on my forehead.

Now the business part of book promotion and sales begins. I'll need to schedule book signings and interviews and readings. With all the recent changes in the publishing industry, less monies are available for promoting unknown writers. Publishers have cut back their budgets; authors have become their own publicity agents. Believe me, I'm not looking forward to it. What I am looking forward to is holding that book in my hands. What a journey it's been.

One is never happy with one's work!

I had the pleasure last night of reading a section of my novel to our writing group. Dawn, the facilitator of Hillcity Writers, orgnized a potluck dinner to celebrate my book contract. I'm still drooling over the variety of foods presented. The celebratory cake was an added bonus, even for this diabetic--and, yes, I did indulge.

Hillcity Writers is a varied group of talented people: novelists, playwrites, non-fiction writers and authors of children's literature. However, it is the size of their hearts and the joyfulness of their spirits that touch me.

Somehow I'd missed the fact that the potluck dinner was in my honor. When Vonnie came into the den, carrying part of my manuscript and teling me I was expected to read it, I was not exactly pleased. You see, I know how I am. If I read it to anyone, I knew I'd want to rewrite portions of it or would agonzie over a word choice or ask myself why I'd used a particular phrasing. A writer is never satisfied with his or her work. The urge to tweak it or modify elements nags the mind, niggles the spirit. "I can do that better. Let me fiddle with it, rewrite it one more time."

Still, giving my first reading of "The Phantom Lady of Paris" was an experience I'll remember forever. I've been blessed with many fond memories in my lifetime: a secure, loving home created by my mother, the first time I saw Paris, the birth of my son and every day of wonder that followed as he grew-up, his graduation from MIT, my first glimpse of Vonnie, the wonderful day in Berlin when I gained a daughter, Katrin, via marriage and on and on. If life is made richer with fond memories, I am a wealthy man.