[Bill,
August 14, 2009]
What's a writer?
Answering this question leads to one of two directions, at least for me. One is more of a philosophical discussion, the kind that end up inconclusive 'cuz that's just how philosophy ends up. Then there's my practical answer:
Writers are people who have readers.
Back in the day, I wrote that and a reader here proved my point by arguing with what I wrote -- he suggested -- what about the people who sock away a manuscript and it's never read in their lifetime? Duh, I thought: Once it's read, they're writers. The present changes the past. My friend had the point that writers are people who write, which would include all literate persons. Or he was pushing for more of a philosophical answer, one which would prove inconclusive.
One you get into the philosophical discussion, you get into the realm of aesthetics. Unfortunately, aesthetics are extremely difficult to talk about it. Some people can assert that Erich Segal is a typist, not a writer, as Truman Capote said, and Mr. Capote himself was a writer. And I would immediately agree. But alas, arguing it convincingly is a different story.
Now, as a professional writer, I could argue that writers are people who get paid to write. But it's a tautology. I'm a professional because I get paid. Do I stop being a professional writer once I cease getting paid? Kinda. Do I stop being a writer once I die if I have no residuals or generate no income? Or under my other standard, writers have readers, do I stop being a writer when I am no longer read?
It is a conundrum. But of all, I like the idea that writers have readers. That makes every blogger and Tweeter and commenter a writer -- and I'm OK with that definition. Unfortunately, as a writer by profession, I either need to make a distinction (adding the modifier "professional") or cease seeing writing, in a day where anyone has the potential for a worldwide audience, as anything special or unique.
I was initially excited about blogging and the democratization of the Internet and publishing. But, now, I'm feeling a little saddened by what's been lost. Imagine, if you will, that a computer was invented that could let anyone be a doctor. It would scan bodies and tell you what's wrong, and recommend prescriptions. You just punch in the info and voila -- fully demotized medical care. What would we say about professionally trained doctors? How would they feel? A sense of loss. They'd be convinced they still brought something extra to the table. That's how I feel, sometimes.
I didn't realize that my profession would get swallowed whole by the Internet. So I'm a little depressed and demoralized right now. This blog was supposed to be a fun outlet, where I could say anything I want, set against the highly disciplined (albeit creative) writing that I must do to earn my daily bread. I didn't realize that it's existence itself (not in the specific, but in general terms) would threaten my livelihood.
On a somewhat related topic, I'm starting to really hate the Internet. I'm longing for life when it didn't exist. I'm looking, in a way, for a new profession that won't involve me turning on a computer. I'm happier away from the Internet. It's a cacophony of voices. It's everyone's voice. It warps my sense of the world -- it's the mental version of the superhighway.
What I mean is this: The automobile, and the superhighway, distort our personal sense of our physical being. I see myself, for example, as a person who can shoot down to Philadelphia in an hour, or up to Scranton, or get to Florida in 14 hours. It gives me -- or us, if you will -- a false sense of our human limitations. My car breaks down, and I have a four mile walk (or bike ride) to the nearest quick mart to get milk, bread, and the like.
The Internet gives me a strangely distorting sensation of being able to access the mind of the world. Take that away, and I feel better.
I am not arguing for Luddhitism. But I am beginning to think that the Internet is incredibly distorting or warping. Maybe I'm just being too negative. Maybe I'm just missing the camaraderie of the newsroom and publishing houses, the smell and feel and finality of print. And yes, the exclusivity. Everyone thinks they have a story to tell -- and now everyone's telling it. The gatekeepers have been routed around and the gates flung open. And I feel like one of the privileged class inside losing its privileges, and saying, what about me, and my profession, in this new world?
I am still employed. But I've dedicated my life to this profession, and if it's not going away, the handwriting's on the wall ... hard-won lessons in writing are available free on the Internet, things that were analogous to trade secrets and learned from hard labor, all out there for anyone to learn. And they're learning it.
What's a writer? It's everybody now.
Writers are people who have readers.
Back in the day, I wrote that and a reader here proved my point by arguing with what I wrote -- he suggested -- what about the people who sock away a manuscript and it's never read in their lifetime? Duh, I thought: Once it's read, they're writers. The present changes the past. My friend had the point that writers are people who write, which would include all literate persons. Or he was pushing for more of a philosophical answer, one which would prove inconclusive.
One you get into the philosophical discussion, you get into the realm of aesthetics. Unfortunately, aesthetics are extremely difficult to talk about it. Some people can assert that Erich Segal is a typist, not a writer, as Truman Capote said, and Mr. Capote himself was a writer. And I would immediately agree. But alas, arguing it convincingly is a different story.
Now, as a professional writer, I could argue that writers are people who get paid to write. But it's a tautology. I'm a professional because I get paid. Do I stop being a professional writer once I cease getting paid? Kinda. Do I stop being a writer once I die if I have no residuals or generate no income? Or under my other standard, writers have readers, do I stop being a writer when I am no longer read?
It is a conundrum. But of all, I like the idea that writers have readers. That makes every blogger and Tweeter and commenter a writer -- and I'm OK with that definition. Unfortunately, as a writer by profession, I either need to make a distinction (adding the modifier "professional") or cease seeing writing, in a day where anyone has the potential for a worldwide audience, as anything special or unique.
I was initially excited about blogging and the democratization of the Internet and publishing. But, now, I'm feeling a little saddened by what's been lost. Imagine, if you will, that a computer was invented that could let anyone be a doctor. It would scan bodies and tell you what's wrong, and recommend prescriptions. You just punch in the info and voila -- fully demotized medical care. What would we say about professionally trained doctors? How would they feel? A sense of loss. They'd be convinced they still brought something extra to the table. That's how I feel, sometimes.
I didn't realize that my profession would get swallowed whole by the Internet. So I'm a little depressed and demoralized right now. This blog was supposed to be a fun outlet, where I could say anything I want, set against the highly disciplined (albeit creative) writing that I must do to earn my daily bread. I didn't realize that it's existence itself (not in the specific, but in general terms) would threaten my livelihood.
On a somewhat related topic, I'm starting to really hate the Internet. I'm longing for life when it didn't exist. I'm looking, in a way, for a new profession that won't involve me turning on a computer. I'm happier away from the Internet. It's a cacophony of voices. It's everyone's voice. It warps my sense of the world -- it's the mental version of the superhighway.
What I mean is this: The automobile, and the superhighway, distort our personal sense of our physical being. I see myself, for example, as a person who can shoot down to Philadelphia in an hour, or up to Scranton, or get to Florida in 14 hours. It gives me -- or us, if you will -- a false sense of our human limitations. My car breaks down, and I have a four mile walk (or bike ride) to the nearest quick mart to get milk, bread, and the like.
The Internet gives me a strangely distorting sensation of being able to access the mind of the world. Take that away, and I feel better.
I am not arguing for Luddhitism. But I am beginning to think that the Internet is incredibly distorting or warping. Maybe I'm just being too negative. Maybe I'm just missing the camaraderie of the newsroom and publishing houses, the smell and feel and finality of print. And yes, the exclusivity. Everyone thinks they have a story to tell -- and now everyone's telling it. The gatekeepers have been routed around and the gates flung open. And I feel like one of the privileged class inside losing its privileges, and saying, what about me, and my profession, in this new world?
I am still employed. But I've dedicated my life to this profession, and if it's not going away, the handwriting's on the wall ... hard-won lessons in writing are available free on the Internet, things that were analogous to trade secrets and learned from hard labor, all out there for anyone to learn. And they're learning it.
What's a writer? It's everybody now.