The infamous (and despised) THEY say you need to take the highs with the lows. (I wonder if THEY had to actually go to night school to figure that one out?) Here’s what no one ever tells you about what I prefer thinking off as the Peaks and Valleys:

Anyone who has ever summitted a mountain peak (or tried, like me), climbed in places like the Rocky Mountains, or spent time hiking and conquering the commanding presence of the Sleeping Giant on the resplendent island of Kaua’i, Hawai’i, knows the common phrase in a sightly different way (and, if used by the writer, a more positive outlook): “what goes down, must come up”.

Oh how many times can a person climb the endless switchbacks, often so steep one is literally “walking” on both hands and feet (known both affectionately AND unaffectionately—normally in the same hike—as “scrambling”) and think “finally, the top”, only to see the line of hikers above the next turn. Or, having finally beaten the curvaceous beast and summitted that particular peak, only to point a finger at the moving ant-like creatures miles below on a valley floor ahead in the distance and ask”who are they?”.

“Oh, them, they must’ve got an early start; that’s our trail down there.”

“But what’s that?” says a discouraged voice that sounds a lot like the deflated, finished, I-can’t-take-another-beating-like-this you ass, pointing at another group of ant-creatures across the valley a thousand feet up.

“Our trail.”

Reaching the actual summit point (i.e. top) of a particular mountain is never (not even mercilessly close) to a straight line from lowest to highest. And if it were, it would be difficult enough. But as in life—and book marketing—the Grand Architect has seen fit to make the challenge nearly impossible.

Enough so to make the hardiest of us falter, whine, quibble with ourselves as to the point, shake our fist at an imaginary adversary, swear an oath never to be broken one minute only to fall on our knees and bawl like babies because it’s over, rant, rage, recover, recant, readjust, regroup, reform, redeem, roust, revel, reel in surprisingly unforeseen despair and defeat, regret, retool, retake, rinse, and repeat.

It’s a fool’s errand, the pessimist says. You did your best but only those lucky enough to be struck dead center by the lightening of the gods break free, the realist says.

But remember how exhilarating and free and untouchable the last high point felt. Recall the majesty of the view from up there, the optimist cries.

And that’s what keeps some of us going. We see dead comrades along the path. We pass zombie-eyed souls who’ve long since lost their minds to the insanity of ups and down, sure things turned to zero sales, pure garbage climb the ranks while the words of geniuses raise their hand for the final time before succumbing to the mixed metaphor of an unforgiving ocean undertow that pulls a valiant writer to his or her early, watery end.

“If only I’d charged less,” thinks one departing soul.

“If only I’d charged more,” another.

One wonders how it is they never, in all their travels, discovered the secret.

Some mourn.

Some feel relief at the end of the suffering.

But a persistent few persevere. And that is when I realized (my most recent reason) to continue on. A good writer friend (talented and wise beyond any I know in the ways of the marketplace) believes that, sadly, talent doesn’t count. Well let me rephrase. That it counts—of course it counts—but an unknown will never make it on great writing; they can only ride the marketing/branding tram to the top. I’ve always believed him wrong (as well as woefully correct). We’ve all seen the talentless dreck climb the charts, nearly to the top even, due solely to two factors (my opinion):

1) Sixth graders or adults who read at a sixth grade level. That’s not a joke; let’s face it, some writers have talent commensurate with a sixth grader turning in a creative writing assignment and there are certainly readers out there who read at that level. (To make a different comparison on the other side of the same coin, what I read, compared to John Steinbeck or Joseph Conrad or Hemingway, could rightfully be called “sixth grade reading”.) It’s not meant as an insult as much as an observation of fact. There are different levels of skill, potential, and taste in all areas of life.

2) This is the big one: marketing. A great marketer (we’re told in the old, cliché example) could sell ice to an Eskimo. Guess what? They can also sell the masses on a crappy book.

But you can’t cultivate a readership beyond #1 and only #2 gives you enough sales to drive you to the top of the charts. Once a discerning reader (who was part of the blitzkrieg on the book marketed as the next Of Mice and Men) discovers he or she has been duped, that reader shall never buy another pile of pages from said marketer/writer again. In a reverse of Pink Floyd, NOT another brick in the (readership) wall. The mind-blowing sales numbers must, over time, decrease.

Yet many of us allow the meteoric success of literary swill demoralize us. At least I admit that I do. I realize there are those writers whose skin is so thick, resolve so unyielding, belief so concrete, and ego so microscopic that they could not care less. GOOD. That’s my point: we shouldn’t care any more about the talentless writer selling a million books and getting wildly successful than we should the duck call-making hillbilly family that wins the lottery.

Lightning strikes. Planes crash. Every (or most) lotteries have one winner. Can you imagine sitting around in a pool of your own tears because dufus in the next county won the lottery? I realize reaching the bestseller list and making money are not the base goals of art, but I refuse to apologize for wanting to be a writer. You know, as a JOB. And most jobs I know of and have worked pay money for skill. So yes, it disheartens me when a book that makes me sick to my stomach it is so BAAAAD makes its writer well-known and rich if even for the allotted fifteen minutes.

I’ll end with this, climbers: I read an article by a very astute man (I apologize that I cannot remember his name—these days I feel like the Dunkin Donut man; as if one of these days I am going to meet myself walking in AND out of my office door). It was similar to this blog albeit much better organized and geared toward answers. I will never forget, however, the hope re-instilled in my heart by his last, summarizing sentence:

If you write something great, at some point, it will sell.

I’ll finish with this less eloquent statement: lightning strikes, lottery winners, flash in the frying pans, and one hit wonders—good for you. I’ve got a brick foundation to lay and another mountain to climb.

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The blank page is dead…long live the blank page.

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Author known to use spontaneous satire, sarcasm, and unannounced injections of pith or witticisms which may not be suitable for humorless or otherwise jest-challenged individuals. (Witticisms not guaranteed to be witty, funny, comical, hilarious, clever, scintillating, whimsical, wise, endearing, keen, savvy, sagacious, penetrating, fanciful, or otherwise enjoyable. The Surgeon General has determined through laboratory testing that sarcasm can be dangerous, even in small amounts, and should not be ingested by those who are serious, somber, pensive, weighty, funereal, unsmiling, poker-faced, sober, or pregnant.)
 
 
 
Talking Bubble Image credit: audiohead / 123RF Stock Photo

(Zombie admission credited to author.)

Igloo Image credit: andresr / 123RF Stock Photo

(Pithy Eskimo thoughts credited to author.)

Lightning Image credit: nexusplexus / 123RF Stock Photo