Hey, everyone. I was just thinking about writers. Funny breed of guy or gal. What got me onto that subject was the fact that I was sitting here looking at my shelves full of books. Fat books, skinny books. 30,000 words to 130,000 words.
It crossed my mind just how few authors could carry a really big book. Not physically carry but to carry a story for that long. Lots of people write them. They stretch them out by putting in filler, details and a healthy dose of boredom. There's an art to that, sure. Robert Parker, the great detective writer, used dialogue more than anything, but I've read all his books.
But I was talking about the really big blockbusters like Tom Clancy during his prime or Wilbur Smith or James Clavell with his Shogun or Noble House. That one was 1200 pages that seemed like a few brief moments. At any given time there may be 15 or 20 people on planet earth who can really carry a monster like that. Most of them wind up as millionaires, as they richly deserve. Then there are the others. Allow me to give you a supposition.
It's possible that the greatest writer that ever lived never wrote a book. He may have been a brick mason. In his struggle to support a family he just never got around to it. He was a square peg in a round hole all his life.
I figure there was another Van Gogh that never painted. Maybe he worked at a soda fountain during the 50's. Perhaps the world's greatest preacher died in a rice paddy in Vietnam.
Although I don't consider myself as exceptional in any area, allow me to use myself as an example. All my life I've made a living in jobs where my aptitude did not lie. By dint of hard work and great effort I made it through. By burning the midnight oil I made a living in a field that was far from my natural gifts.
The greatest baseball player who ever lived possibly never picked up a bat. He didn't live during the right time, never had a mentor. Never had the money. Lived on an island. Crippled during his youth, a thousand other reasons that resulted in no one knowing his name.
The gift, no matter how great, is not enough. A burning desire is not enough. Powerful parents or influential friends may not be enough. Luck seems to be the greatest asset. The typical successful author? If you scrounged around the world you would find a better one sitting in a bar in Singapore; a dude that may not be able to write his own name. I've heard some awesome storytellers who would have made great authors. One tremendous, anointed minister that I know personally could not read or write. He would have his wife get up and read a passage of scripture. Then he would preach the walls down. Did he have a congregation of 50,000 or a salary in six figures? No.
Indeed, it is a rare thing when a person falls into a life built for their gift. When they do, they will often shake the world. What if Albert Einstein's dad had insisted he become a banker? What if Michelangelo had been forced to be a plumber? Sometimes a wise parent will see the gift and help the child toward its fruition. A gentle nudge that doesn't cause rebellion, because overstepped authority always causes rebellion.
There's a commercial for a credit card that states "What's in your wallet?" My question is, who's sleeping in your house? A Madame Curie that you are trying to mold into the next Miss USA? Or perhaps a concert pianist that you want to run the family farm? It's a daunting task being any sort of influence on a young life. It is something to be approached with awe. Looking back, it was too large a job for a man of my ability.
Tonight, in a noisy bar in Anduhar, the world's greatest singer breaks into a song. He sings Danny Boy in his deep rich voice and grown men weep from the beauty of it. Tomorrow that singer will arise at dawn and go to sea. Because he makes his living by the sweat of his brow and by being a fisherman.
From the author's green retreat, I'm CE Wills.
It crossed my mind just how few authors could carry a really big book. Not physically carry but to carry a story for that long. Lots of people write them. They stretch them out by putting in filler, details and a healthy dose of boredom. There's an art to that, sure. Robert Parker, the great detective writer, used dialogue more than anything, but I've read all his books.
But I was talking about the really big blockbusters like Tom Clancy during his prime or Wilbur Smith or James Clavell with his Shogun or Noble House. That one was 1200 pages that seemed like a few brief moments. At any given time there may be 15 or 20 people on planet earth who can really carry a monster like that. Most of them wind up as millionaires, as they richly deserve. Then there are the others. Allow me to give you a supposition.
It's possible that the greatest writer that ever lived never wrote a book. He may have been a brick mason. In his struggle to support a family he just never got around to it. He was a square peg in a round hole all his life.
I figure there was another Van Gogh that never painted. Maybe he worked at a soda fountain during the 50's. Perhaps the world's greatest preacher died in a rice paddy in Vietnam.
Although I don't consider myself as exceptional in any area, allow me to use myself as an example. All my life I've made a living in jobs where my aptitude did not lie. By dint of hard work and great effort I made it through. By burning the midnight oil I made a living in a field that was far from my natural gifts.
The greatest baseball player who ever lived possibly never picked up a bat. He didn't live during the right time, never had a mentor. Never had the money. Lived on an island. Crippled during his youth, a thousand other reasons that resulted in no one knowing his name.
The gift, no matter how great, is not enough. A burning desire is not enough. Powerful parents or influential friends may not be enough. Luck seems to be the greatest asset. The typical successful author? If you scrounged around the world you would find a better one sitting in a bar in Singapore; a dude that may not be able to write his own name. I've heard some awesome storytellers who would have made great authors. One tremendous, anointed minister that I know personally could not read or write. He would have his wife get up and read a passage of scripture. Then he would preach the walls down. Did he have a congregation of 50,000 or a salary in six figures? No.
Indeed, it is a rare thing when a person falls into a life built for their gift. When they do, they will often shake the world. What if Albert Einstein's dad had insisted he become a banker? What if Michelangelo had been forced to be a plumber? Sometimes a wise parent will see the gift and help the child toward its fruition. A gentle nudge that doesn't cause rebellion, because overstepped authority always causes rebellion.
There's a commercial for a credit card that states "What's in your wallet?" My question is, who's sleeping in your house? A Madame Curie that you are trying to mold into the next Miss USA? Or perhaps a concert pianist that you want to run the family farm? It's a daunting task being any sort of influence on a young life. It is something to be approached with awe. Looking back, it was too large a job for a man of my ability.
Tonight, in a noisy bar in Anduhar, the world's greatest singer breaks into a song. He sings Danny Boy in his deep rich voice and grown men weep from the beauty of it. Tomorrow that singer will arise at dawn and go to sea. Because he makes his living by the sweat of his brow and by being a fisherman.
From the author's green retreat, I'm CE Wills.
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