A Big Splash

I guess that’s the goal of the serious writer. To make some sort of splash to get the attention of the lifeguards (readers, editors, agents) looking out over the crowded pool. Some “writers” will take any attention they can get, resorting to gimmicks or clichés, chasing after trends or getting themselves noticed by bad behavior. It rarely does anything but annoy people. The goal of the writer that has excellence on his mind will get up on the diving board and perform some amazing, beautiful dive to try to allow people to see his talent. Even then, the pool of writers in this time is so congested and loud that you can be at your most amazing and still get lost to the noise.

I’ve been looking through some of my dad’s articles and stories. It makes me feel close to him. I’m guilty that I didn’t always take the time to read them when he shared them on facebook or twitter. There is one I had never seen before. He used the analogy of swimming to compare his writing style with mine:

Swimming has never been very high on my list of things I enjoy doing. I am content to wade along the shore while others launch out into deeper waters. At my age, I am probably not going to change.

My three daughters all enjoy swimming. I remember once on a vacation in Colorado, they preferred diving into the motel swimming pool instead of enjoying a pleasant hike in the splendor of mountains and forests. Even one day when the high temperature was fifty-something!

My daughters are all grown now, with youngsters of their own that they and their husbands take on vacation trips. One daughter in particular does share something I do love to do with me. She is a writer. She has written countless short stories and articles and eight or nine novels. She has had a few things published, but nothing big-time yet. She is looking for her “big break.”

One of the things she is constantly doing is rewriting in order to satisfy the agent. This theme doesn’t work, the agent says, that dialog doesn’t sound natural, this character is not very well developed. I expect one of these days, something my daughter writes will click with the agent, and with an editor, and my daughter will have a successful book on the market.

Me? I approach this writing thing from a different perspective. I know that traditional publishing is still the primary way to reach a large audience and to bring an author to the attention of the market place. However, I have always been more independent in my efforts to gain an audience. I don’t write to please an agent or an editor. I write to please myself.

I am very happy when others choose to read what I have written, and to whisper sweet accolades in my ears, but I will write whether that happens or not. I have a long resume of works I have authored and self-published, on the web and in print. I have received some accolades for my work, which I greatly appreciate. But I have not made the New York Times best-selling list yet. Hey, I haven’t even made the Podunk City Times best-selling list yet.

But I keep writing anyway. At this point in time, my daughter has had less success than I, because I do have a small number of copies of books I self-published out there, where she as yet has none. I will be very happy when that changes for her.

In the ocean of published authors, I am content still to wade in the shallows along the shore, while my daughter continues to look for an opportunity to dive into the deeper waters. We will have to wait and see which one of us the Lord calls to make the bigger splash.

One sentence jumps out at me every time I read this. “I will be very happy when that changes for her.”

Not if. When.

My dad wasn’t one to give praise lavishly or where it was not warranted. He told the truth, even if we would have preferred gushy, proud father talk. If we had him as a teacher and we didn’t do well on a test or assignment, he wouldn’t give us a good grade, and he’d make sure we knew he knew we could do better. If we wanted to give up on something that he thought we should stick with, he would let us know that, even though he would support us and love us, he would be disappointed that we gave up. So knowing that my dad thinks I have a glimmer of hope in this hopeless race I’m relentlessly running toward that diving board, somehow that makes it worth the rejection and being ignored and overlooked. I’ll just keep trying, because dad would want me to if he were still here to tell me.

“Don’t give up,” he whispers through time and space from where he is to where I am. “Keep writing anyway. You’re doing it for both of us now. Let me see you do your best.”

So what if the whole pool is busy looking at something else? My dad’s watching me.