My First Blog

I have never had a blog before. That's not to say that I haven't ranted at hundreds of others -- I certainly have. I like ranting. It's the way I take out my frustrations, and since, of course, I know exactly how the world should be run and no one is paying the least bit of attention to me about it I have plenty to rant about.

But that's not what this blog is for. This is a writing blog, a way for me to try to get my writing groove back. You see, I haven't written anything for about a year. After I finished my mob manuscript Long Shot, which people who are (A) not related to me and (B) do not owe me money tell me is better than The Godfather I couldn't put more than about 40 pages down on paper before thinking, "Man, even I wouldn't want to read this stuff." Trying unsuccessfully to get an agent/publisher to bite on Long Shot depressed the hell out of me. After that, try as I might, I simply couldn't work up the enthusiasm to get into another story. It seems like a huge waste of time, and at 46 I don't have enough of that left that I can afford to waste any of it.

I know: such-and-such amazing/award winning/still-taught-in-college-classes writer was rejected 1,000,027 times before being published. F. Scott Fitzgerald used his 125 rejection notices for his first novel (I confess I forget which one) to paper his NY apartment. Dr. Seuss, when he was still Ted Geisel, was rejected for And To Think That I Saw It On Mulberry Street by editors the world over before he was published. It's not supposed to be easy to break into the writing spotlight. How could I possibly appreciate my success if some publisher snapped up Long Shot on the first try?

I can see the point of this caution, and take some comfort in knowing that F. Scott and Ted didn't get in a publisher's door straight off the writers' boat, but that still hasn't helped me get rid of this writer's block. My jealousy of successful writers is the reason that I don't read modern fiction, because the majority of stuff I see streaming off publishers' presses isn't anywhere near as good as Long Shot. Frankly, I am a hell of a good writer, and that funny, intelligent, exciting, jump-off-the-page-and-bite-into-your-brain manuscript of mine is solid proof of that. Solid proof...which apparently doesn't matter at all. See, the big difference between these days and those of F. Scott and Ted is that the majority of publishers don't seem to be publishing talent anymore. Talent is not their concern -- sales are, and if a writer doesn't come up with a story that these people think is marketable to a wide audience they aren't interested in it no matter how brilliant it is. And there's the rub: I don't want to write another Harry Potter or Da Vinci Code because those have been done, but since my voice isn't like J.K. Rowling's or Dan Brown's I may never see my work in print. Apparently, publishers these days don't believe that originality sells.

I am definitely an original. I have been my whole life. I was the child at whom other kids looked askance because I was "weird". Not serial killer, Anton Chigurh weird, but book smart weird, the kind of weird that these days is probably much more admired than it was when I was 13. I have always had that legendary "different drummer" pounding away in my brain, and while she's great on a poster in some counselor's office encouraging creativity and freedom to be oneself she makes for a pretty lonely life for a troubled adolescent. Anton probably understood that.

Ah, Anton, the oh-so-strange and frightening killer in Cormac McCarthy's No Country For Old Men. If you have not seen this movie you need to. It's not only the Best Picture for this past Oscar year; I think it's one of the best movies in the history of film. I'm not making this statement because Javier Bardem, Anton's incarnation, is incredibly hot when he doesn't have that Dorothy Hamill haircut going on. I'm basing my gushing praise on the fact that the film is amazing, so amazing that it has made me anxious to read McCarthy's book.

I'm incredibly surprised at this revelation. It first hit me about 10 minutes into the film but I rejected it. "No", I told myself as I munched on my $6.00 popcorn at the IMAX, "you are not going to rush out and buy this book like everyone else who's seen this movie. It would be terribly undignified. You are better than that. You, my dear, are an artiste, and artistes do not buy other people's movie books." I warded off the notion until the next day, when I caught myself -- and I mean caught myself -- looking up if McCarthy's book was available at the CLC Library. Then I went to the Waukegan library website to look for it, and then the site of the Cook branch in Libertyville. Finally, I gave in and decided that Friday I am making a pilgrimage and buying No Country For Old Men, my writer's pride be damned.

Yes, I, Rae Lutz-Doberstein, bitter and jealous unpublished author, is going to buy a copy of a modern writer's fiction. I have this vision of the world trembling a little when I get to the checkout counter at Border's with my copy of No Country, when I become just another member of the reading masses about to be blown away by another writer's turns of phrase... "blown away". Yes, Anton would be proud.