What Makes a Writer?

What makes a writer?

Such a simple question. But the answer is anything but easy. 

I suspect if you asked ten people that question, you'd get ten different answers. And none of them would be wrong.

The question came up this past Saturday at a meeting of the Chicago Writers Association (CWA) at the Beverly Library on Chicago's South Side (yes, deep in the heart of White Sox territory). Although I joined the CWA back in the spring, this was the first meeting of the group that I'd attended. (In my defense, it was only the second meeting they've held since I joined. The group, founded by Diana Laskaris, a lawyer, author and writer's best friend, had been running along mostly as a Yahoo e-mail group but last month, as a precursor to taking on a larger role with an upcoming Web site launch, revived its writers' meetings.)

The CWA claims 162 members. Only five percent (eight people) of that membership showed for Saturday's meeting. According to Diana, in the two years since the group was founded, no meeting has ever brought in more than 15 people. She's generally okay with that. As long as some people come, it is, in her view, worth the effort.

And she's right. Now, obviously, I can't speak for the other seven who came on Saturday, but it was for me well worth the drive from the North Shore. Until you meet people face-to-face, you just don't realize how extraordinary they really are. On Saturday, I met some truly inspiring writers, like Diana, Susan Danzig, Jennifer Brown Banks, Walt, Lee, Janet, and Nona. (Note: If I don't include someone's last name, it's because that individual has not in some way put his or her name out there on the World Wide Web.) 

Those who don't attend these meetings are missing out. In some ways, I understand. We've all got busy schedules, but for anyone reading this, just know that it's worth the effort to make room in that busy schedule to attend these meetings.

Now back to the question, What makes a writer?

As I stated earlier, there is no right or wrong answer to this question. What I write are my thoughts and my thoughts only. So with that proviso, here then are my thoughts on what makes a writer.

If you want to figure out what makes a writer, I think it important to first weed out those things that do not make a writer. I'm probably going against conventional wisdom with some of my thoughts here, but I came up with three things that do not make a writer:

1. Taking classes. There are all kinds of "How to be a writer" classes out there but none of them will make you a writer. They might make you a better writer, but they won't make you a writer. Before investing in such classes, you should first decide in your own mind whether you really are a writer. Otherwise you're throwing your money away.
2. Being paid. While it's nice to get a check for your writing, getting paid for writing does not make you a writer. Some of the greatest writers the world has ever known never made a penny from their writings.
3. Saying, "I'm a writer." Saying your a doctor does not make you a doctor. So why would it be any different for a writer?

So what then does make a writer? I have an answer that will frustrate many, but please bear with me.

My answer is one word: nothing.

That's right. Nothing. There's no magic potion. There are no secrets to unlock. There's no assembly line producing writers (if there were, Doubleday would be putting out John Grishams by the truckload). There's nothing out there that can make you a writer. You either are or you aren't.

How then do you know if you're a writer? 

If you are a writer, you probably already know it. You might not have admitted it to yourself, but, deep down inside, you know. I say this as a person who for many years fought being a writer.

What made me deny being a writer for so long? I blame my father, who is a writer. You see, when I was a kid, my Dad, an agricultural journalist, would take me to his office. I'd see what he did, and, well, it seemed pretty boring. All he'd do was sit at a desk typing.

That might explain why when I went away to college I had the crazy idea that I was going to be a pilot. For two semesters, I flew Cessnas before I realized that this was a career path that was never going to get off the ground.

Four years later I stumbled into a master's program in journalism at the University of Illinois at Champaign. That's where, at the ripe age of 22, I found writing. Or maybe it found me.

I suppose I always knew that I was a writer. There is something that distinguishes writers from non-writers. When you're a writer you can't not write. There are words in your head that always seem to be pushing and shoving their way out.

That explains why in the middle of the night when you're awakened by your son's cries, you go to his bed and rub his back until he falls back to sleep. And then, rather than going back to sleep yourself, you make your way into the office next door, grab a notepad and pen and write down all the thoughts that came into your head during the hour you spent comforting your son. Only after all the words have come out are you able to go back to your bed and sleep.

The next morning all those thoughts that you had in the middle of the night become all the words that you just read.     

The Not-So-Glamorous Life

Quick, right off the top of your head, how many current authors can you name? I came up with Stephen King, Dan Brown, John Grisham and Scott Turow.

And then there's that guy I really like, oh, what's his name...it's right on the tip of my tongue. Gosh, I just read his book and really liked it. It was...wait...I know it...I was just reading it in bed last night...I just can't remember the title. But it was really, really good--

Now how many current movie stars can you name, right off the top of you head? Let's see, there's Tom Cruise, Angelina Jolie, Robert Redford, Clint Eastwood, Dustin Hoffman, Nicole Kidman, Tom Hanks, Susan Sarandon, Morgan Freeman...and the list goes on and on.

The point is, few authors have achieved movie star status. Fans aren't clamoring at their feet. The paparazzi aren't trailing their every footstep.

When you go on a book tour, you realize that if you aren't J.K. Rowling, James Patterson or Patricia Cornwell, there won't be throngs of people coming to see you.

But you hope that some will come. And that some, if not fans now, will become fans.

Those were my rather modest hopes when I traveled up to Rockford, Illinois this past weekend for the first stops on my two-month book tour.

My schedule called for book signings and talks at three libraries over two days, in towns that I had never heard of prior to my publicist telling me that I was to go to them. On Saturday, it was Loves Park and Roscoe. Sunday, it was Cherry Valley.

When I first pulled in to the Loves Park library, with my wife and toddler in tow, there was one of those How-cool-is-this? moments when I saw the sign reading "Mystery Authors September 24," knowing that I was one of those mystery authors. And then it just got cooler when, upon walking in and seeing pictures of me and my book, my two-year-old son said, "Daddy's book." 

Photo couresty of Rock Valley Publishing and Margaret DowningI'd been paired for the Saturday events with fellow mystery author Libby Fischer Hellman, one of Chicagoland's more respected and successful authors. I figured that if nobody came to see me, they'd at least come to see her, right?

Wrong. A local newspaper reporter, Margaret Downing, showed -- and that was it. The good news is that Downing is a darling and writes for six (count 'em -- six) community newspapers and her story on our appearances will be appearing in three Rockford-area newspapers on Thursday.   

Being on the road is a lesson in just how hard it is to sell books. The second book-signing, in Roscoe, drew a crowd of two.  Although the turnout was low, the discussion was lively and interesting. And Deborah, a budding non-fiction writer, even bought one of my books (thank you, Deborah!). The other attendee, a writer of children's books, promised to buy my book at a later date.

On Sunday, I was on my own in Cherry Valley, thanks to a late cancellation of another mystery author. Unfortunately, not a soul came out in the dreary, rainy weather to see me.

Oh, well. The weekend wasn't a total loss. I met two wonderful library directors, Ann Powell and Eve Kirk, who went to great lengths to promote my events at their libraries. Many, many thanks to them. I also met a couple of writers who may just turn into fans. Many others will get a chance to read about my book, thanks to the work of Margaret Downing. And my little boy really enjoyed hanging out in the libraries' children's sections, picking apples in Cherry Valley and swimming in the pool at the Clocktower Resort.

They say that you got to look at the business of selling books one book at a time. Well, I sold and signed one book over two days. So that's my one book. Hopefully there will be many more to come.

Next up: the 2005 Author Fair in Joliet on Saturday.

The Windy (and Wonderfully Mysterious) City

You hear it so often it’s become a cliché, but writers are told to write what they know.

That’s how I ended up writing my fiction debut, Lost in the Ivy, which is set in a place that I know very well: Chicago’s Wrigleyville neighborhood. Wrigleyville’s name derives from its storied centerpiece, Wrigley Field, home of the Chicago Cubs.

During the mid-1990’s I lived in various places in and around Wrigleyville. Lost is a murder mystery inspired by that neighborhood.

Chicago has inspired many mystery writers. Eugene Izzi, Barbara D’Amato and Sara Paretsky are among the more notable names that have made Chicago come to life on the pages of mystery books.

What is it about Chicago that captured the imagination of these authors? Is it the city’s unsavory gangster past? Or its history of devious and deadly characters including the notorious likes of Leopold and Loeb and serial killers Herman Mudgett (aka Dr. Death), Richard Speck and John Wayne Gacy. Or its sleazy political corruption scandals? Or its true unsolved mysteries, including the murders of The Grimes sisters and the disappearance of candy heiress Helen Brach?

Surely Chicago’s oftentimes dark past shapes in some fashion how mystery writers view it. But I’d like to think that there’s much more to it than that.

Chicago has an air of mystery about it, and I mean that in a good way. It’s a feeling that spills out of its architecture, its majestic lakefront and its incredibly diverse and varied neighborhoods. There’s a sense that it’s holding so many secrets – secrets that you want to discover in you own, very personal, way.

Being a writer allows you to explore those mysteries and to share them with others. That’s why books inspired by Chicago feel so alive. They show what makes Chicago such a wonderfully mysterious place.

Book Bloopers

A frantic call from a friend. She's hesitant to say anything. "Um, I've got some bad news," she tells my dear wife.

Thoughts race through my wife's brain. Is she sick or hurt? Did somebody die?

No, it's nothing like that. She found a blooper in my book. On page 174. It reads, "Lizzy put her right hand to her forehead."

What's wrong with that, you ask? Well, on page 169, the book reads, "Being locked in the trunk of a moving vehicle was bad enough, but, to make matters worse, her wrists were bound together behind her back..."

Ah, there's the slip-up. Obviously, she could not have touched her right hand to her forehead if her wrists were bound together behind her back.

The friend who pointed this out to my wife was hesitant to say anything because, well, because she knew how much I'd put into this book and she didn't want to hurt my feelings.

I can honestly say that my feelings are not even bruised. As much as I'd like my book to be perfect, I know it isn't. 

A couple weeks earlier my mother reported another blooper in the book. On page 46 it reads: "Standing on the cold tile of the bathroom floor, wearing nothing but his briefs, Charley reflected on the last twelve hours." 

What's wrong there? Well, on page 43, Charley, the protagonist, was wearing boxers, not briefs. And he didn't come with a change of clothes. So unless he got the briefs from Lizzy, he couldn't be wearing them.

The reality is, mistakes happen. Even in the best of movies and books, there are bloopers like these. In fact, there's a Web site called slipups.com devoted to pointing out these gaffes in movies, TV and books. Just check out some of the bloopers that have been found in best-selling and award-winning books. There are three bloopers listed for Ray Bradbury's classic, Fahrenheit 451. There are two slip-ups caught in Larry McMurtry's Lonesome Dove. Dumas' The Three Musketeers comes in with two mistakes. Harry Potter and the Temple of Goblet: a whopping 18 mistakes caught by readers.

So you see, I'm in pretty good company. If my book reaches anywhere near the success of the aforementioned books, I'll be one very happy former attorney resting on a hammock on a remote island a long way from Chicago.

Exposing Myself

Right at this moment, as I write this journal entry, someone out there might be reading my book, Lost in the Ivy. It might be someone I know; it might be a complete stranger.

I know my book is out there now. And that's an incredibly cool feeling. But it's also a little bit scary.

So much of you, the author, goes into a book that when you release it out into the public you are, in a sense, shedding your clothes and allowing the world to see parts of you that they wouldn't ordinarily see. 

In the newsletter that went out to my mailing list subscribers last week I remarked that if my Amazon sales rank ever dropped into the 4 digits, I'd dance naked in the streets. As I noted in a follow-up to my last journal entry, the sales rank figure did actually climb up around 5,000 later that same day. When I checked tonight it had fallen down into the 30,000 range, which is still a good ranking for a little book like mine, but not good enough to inspire me to disco in the nude.

Some of my mailing list subscribers wanted to know if I really kept my word and went dancing naked in the streets when the Amazon ranking reached 4 digits.

The answer, of course, is, no.

Or is it?

In a literal sense, I did not disrobe and boogie in the buff. But in a figurative sense, just by releasing my book to the public, I've exposed all of myself for all to see. Anyone can peek in on me at any time -- and I would have no way of knowing it. This is a terribly unsettling feeling. All you can hope is that they aren't giggling at you.

When you put your heart and soul into something, you want others to feel the same way that you do about it. But you know that won't always happen. Some will love it. Some will hate it. Most will likely fall somewhere in between.

The one thing I can almost guarantee, though, is that even those who know me will look at me differently after they read my book. Because they will have seen a part of me that they've likely never seen before.