I wrote the following to answer a post I read about how a writer should ‘write every day.’ It kind of frosted my ass, the notion that if you do that, even if you have no talent and nothing to say, you’ll be the next Tolstoy. That’s bullshit. But let’s say it isn’t, and you become a writer with Tolstoy-like talent... if you also have his values and mores and worldview as well, no modern femmi-gurl or femmi-boi manning (can I say that? Hell yeah! Sue me!) the gates at BIG NEW YORK CITY WOKE PUBLISHING is ever going to allow your work to pass through. That’s a fact. Am I unhappy with that? Hell yeah. Fact!
I've been writing since college. I wrote my first book, Carl Melcher Goes to Vietnam (not the first book I sold, but the first book I wrote) because I was driven to. Why? Because I wanted all the morons and fools who sent me (and others) to Vietnam, and the ones who finagled their way out of going, to KNOW what it was like. The war in Vietnam made me a writer. Since this is Memorial Day weekend, let me just say that on the day I was wounded, the guy next to me, Johnny Newguy, was killed... by the same grenade that blew up my leg. Johnny Newguy (I never learned his name) had just shown up in the company that week wearing brand new deep green fatigues, new jungle boots, everything new, along with, no doubt, other ‘replacements’ for the guys that were dying at the rate of about a hundred a week in Vietnam at that time. I don’t know anything about Johnny Newguy other than that he never went home to his mom and dad. He never got a job, married, bought a house, and had children.
At that time... I was just an ignorant American kid who knew nothing about politics, war and peace, world history. And for years and years I never really thought about the necessity of that war. But in my old age, I see it more and more as just a big waste of life, on both sides. Who prospered? Not the people in the little neighborhood of row houses I grew up in, the ones with the hand-lettered signs in the windows, “Welcome Home, Johnny!.” But the military-industrial complex prospered, for sure.
Okay, enough of that. After writing that Vietnam book, and not being able to find a publisher (Nobody wants to read about that war anymore!), I went on to write another book that sold, my first.
And, to keep this short, I've been writing ever since (1972). I sold four books to commercial houses, then, when publishing slowly turned to woke shit, I 'self-published' my books on Amazon Kindle, eight more. But I'm getting weary, not out of old age (73) but out of frustration and disappointment. It's getting harder and harder to sell a book today, and I'm talking about good books, not crap. Why? Because of a lot of sociological changes, and business changes-- the dumbing down of American youth. The rise of the internet and social media, the millions who believe, 'anyone can write a book,' and do. And the millions who no longer read because they cannot relate to the ‘woke’ bs in modern novels, and just play video games.
So, it's hard for someone like myself to find the motivation inside to continue in an endeavor that has a steadily declining return in terms of sales, readers, and, yes, respect. To come to this conclusion is not pessimism, it’s realism.
So, to return to the Pollyanna post about how ‘writers’ should get busy every day for two hours at a minimum, and write, write, write, I think that’s bullshit. And so I don't write every day. I write when I'm moved to write. I write when I have something to say. Like I was here.
Anyway, this angry old man has had his say. So I’ll get off my soap box. My newest book is still sitting out there, unnoticed and unloved. It’s called, Escape From the Future and Other Stories.
Despite all the awfulness of the past few days, I hope you all have a nice weekend and that we, as a country, move on and up, addressing all our problems.
Paul, commenting on your posts is hard in the sense that I can find very little even to quibble about. Basically, I just agree.
In terms of writing (aside from the fact that I generate, or at least edit, technical content as part of my job) I do write something almost every day. It's my way of thinking through issues, and although it's intended for no one but myself I put a lot of effort into achieving clarity. Sometimes it's in the form of online commentary (like this), or reviews of the many books I read (including Escape from the Future), or journaling.
Sadly, I have no illusions about making any kind of splash. Regardless of quality, almost everyone's efforts meet with sublime indifference, the few exceptions being those tapped by the wokerati generally because they're perceived to be promoting a certain world view. I'm at peace with that reality. I have contributed in an exceedingly small way to maintenance of our civilization by being productive and informed and in trying to think critically before making choices (e.g., in voting). In the long term, people who do that should have nothing to regret.
Although you may not feel especially proud of your Vietnam experience, I thank you for making that sacrifice.