The author sits at the top of the tree, basking in the bright sunlight of recognition while shading all those underneath from its nourishing rays. Trying to push through the foliage, the writer hopes and dreams and toils while the summit sometimes accelerates, sometimes coasts but always seems to float effortlessly up and up and away. The hack sits on the lower branches, munching away at the low hanging fruit, ignoring anything going on above, satisfied with his lot, on which he can grow fat without the urgent grasping for excellence. The scribbler is still carving letters into the bark of the tree trunk - but at least he carves letters rather than the random abstracts of the doodler. The toddler wanders past and wonders what all the fuss is about.
In 1934, Dorothea Brande wrote 'Becoming A Writer', which is still held as an invaluable source and which, in many ways, is responsible for this blog existing.
To paraphrase one of her early points (mostly because I would have to stand up and walk over to the bookcase to quote faithfully), she states that a writer is someone who writes, regardless of readership, success or acclaim. Anyone who writes anything on a regular basis is a writer. As to whether they are a good writer is, of course, a matter of opinion. She insists, however, that anyone who cannot find fifteen minutes, every day, to write something (even if it is only "I am writing, I am writing..." (which, unfortunately, reminds me of the denouement of 'The Shining')), cannot truly call themselves a writer.
Clearly, by her definition, I cannot truly call myself a writer since this is only my eleventh posting in fourteen days. In my defence, I do at least spend rather more than fifteen minutes on these occasions when I do show up for work.
Would an author need to spend at least twenty minutes? Or do we need a substantially different definition - hopefully more sharply drafted than the purple prose introductory paragraph above, although I thought my arborial similes were, if nothing else, at least indicative while being facetious.
(As an aside, is it facetious to point out that facetious is the only word to feature all of the vowels of the English language, once only and in the correct order? Probably no more than to point out that the only London Underground station that does not contain any of the letters of the word 'mackerel' is St John's Wood - speaking of which, I would very much like to know who first noticed this staggeringly important fact and, thankfully, brought it to the attention of mankind.)
(And, as an aside to my aside, having wasted valuable blogging time by Googling 'mackerel st johns wood', I have now discovered, thanks to http://forums.warwick.ac.uk/wf/browse/thread.jsp?tid=4549, that the only element in the periodic table similarly unencumbered by mackerel is tin, the only mackerel proof American state is Ohio and something else about some sporting team... but this is a sport-free blog so I will stop there. This was discussed in November 2003 so I could have found all this out nearly five years ago if I had only thought to look. I suspect that is a common lament in the information age and it probably is normally about facts even more trivial than the above.)
To return to my original topic, this blog is an attempt to justify (mostly to myself, but potentially to others, should the opportunity present itself) describing myself as a writer. I am a writer because I write, and here it is, in all its glory. I am, indeed, a published writer because, once I have finished dribbling words through my computer onto the serves at blogger.com, I shall click on the 'publish post' button. This does, of course, entail the shame of self-publishing or, as I put it so wisely in post number 3 (sour grapes and unreasonable expectations): "the dreaded avenue of self-publication, an avenue of shame littered with broken dreams, shattered hopes, purple prose and wheezing, hackneyed, stinking old clichés".
I feel entitled to quote from my own work because it seems unlikely that anyone else will and it's a whole load less effort than producing something new. And yes, I considered making some eco-crack about recycling but decided it was too obvious and too trite. But then I allowed myself to write that previous sentence so that I could have the cake, eat it and, in this sentence, also sell it to some unsuspecting punter on eBay.
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