It · Was · Already · Broke · When · I · Got · Here

I realize that the writing business can be filled with stress and pressure. I realize that many -- if not all -- writers (and yes, I'm including myself in this blanket observation) can be, to put it mildly, a bit over-sensitive to criticism, even when that criticism is of the most intelligent and constructive variety. And I realize that some writers have egos that can quickly get out of hand (what I like to call the "My-Poop-Suddenly-Smells-Like-Perfume" Syndrome).

I realize this. I accept it. I don't much like it, but the above are for the most part small prices to pay for being able to enjoy the privilege of writing fiction and then have people actually pay you so they can publish it, and then have other people shell out their hard-earned money to buy said fiction so they can (hopefully) enjoy reading it. That's all good. Makes me almost smile. Warm and fuzzy feelings have been known to follow, albeit briefly because that's the kind of guy I am, but we're not here to discuss my dreadful personality problems.

I also realize that for every wonderful person like Graham Masterton, Clive Barker, Poppy Z. Brite, Bill Gagliani, Ellen Datlow, and Mort Castle (to name but a mere six), you can easily find at least that many writers and editors who make you wish there existed such a thing as a Carbon Recall program for the Perpetually Self-Possessed, Rude, and Arrogant.

Over the past decade I have, whenever time permits, done anything I can to help a new writer along; critiquing short-story or novel manuscripts, writing Introductions or Afterwords to their collections ... I've even, I'm proud to say, helped secure agents for some of them, agents who have gone on to make very nice sales for said writers. Again, all good stuff. Makes me happy for these writers and their success.

I never expect to be thanked for these things, seriously; if I didn't have faith in a young writer's ability and his or her work, I wouldn't waste my time.

Something happened yesterday that has been troubling me a great deal,and in order for you to understand why it's been troubling me, I need to paraphrase a line from William Peter Blatty's The Exorcist. The two priests, Fathers Merrin and Karras, are about to begin the first phase of the titular ritual (wow -- say that five times really fast after your fourth tequila shooter) when Merrin cautions Karras not to listen to the demon, because the demon will tell lies -- but it will also "...mix the truth in with those lies."

There were a couple of young beginning writers whom I helped out all I could a few years ago. Both have gone on to see a decent -- arguably enviable -- amount of success in their career in a surprisingly short period of time. One of these writers remains in contact with me to this day, and credits me with having helped launch their career. That's great. Makes me feel like I'm paying forward everything J.N. Williamson did for me when I was starting out and had next to no friggin' idea what I was doing.

The other writer has, for reasons that I don't understand and will probably never know, expunged me from their universe. Won't answer e-mails, changed their phone number and didn't update me, moved and didn't bother to give me their new address, unsubscribed from my newsletter, removed the link to my web page from their web page, un-friended me on LJ and Facebook both with no explanations ... All right, already, I get the idea. Doesn't make it sting any less because I thought said writer and I were close friends, but you move on because the other way lies madness.

Back to the Exorcist thing.

Yesterday I was on the phone with a young writer whom I have been attempting to help as much as I can. I had promised to have my comments on their short story to them by yesterday, but a couple of personal matters arose -- my favorite uncle died -- and I had been, well ... sad and distracted for a few days. My mother and all of her brothers are now gone, and my family -- not that big to begin with -- is much, much smaller now. Compounding this was the news that I not only have some dead bone in my bad leg, but quite probably some dead muscle, as well, and it's going to get a whole lot worse before it gets better. (Parenthetical pause: don't ever make fun of someone who'd had to deal with severe chronic pain for more than 6 months, there isn't a goddamn thing about it that lends itself to levity.) This news did not exactly overjoy my wife, Lucy, who has been going above and beyond the call to help take care of me while we try to get this problem (which we've dealing with for the better part of 3 years) resolved. (The writer in question knows much of this, since we were, I thought, friends, and so felt safe in sharing some personal information with them.)

Ahem.

I apologized to said writer for not having my comments ready yet, could they please give me 2 or 3 more days ... and they went to Defcon One and emptied the missile silos. Some very unpleasant things were said, but the Blue Ribbon went to the statement they delivered (at about 400 decibels) right before I said "This conversation is over," and hung up with out waiting for a reply.

Almost verbatim (you always remember the ones that hit too close to the nerve), this writer said -- after informing me that my work is awful and is "apologist" (?) and that Coffin County was a waste of time and paper: "I should have known better than to depend on a broken-down never-was who's going to spend the rest of his pathetic career at the bottom of the midlist if he's lucky!"

The demon will mix the truth in with its lies, indeed.

I've never made any secrets about my health problems, especially the fairly serious ones that have cropped up during the past five years. I won't list them all here because it would be tedious to the extreme and, besides, it seems like too many people define me not by my works and actions but by these health problems (Hell, sometimes I define myself by them), but when you get Right Down To It, technically, in the estimation of more than a few people, I suppose I am currently in the "broken-down" state. The "...never-was..." portion of their comment is, I think, unworthy of comment, and as for the possibility that I will remain on the bottom of the mid-list for the rest of my professional life -- well, let's face it, show me half a dozen writers who say they couldn't care less about that prediction and I'll show you at least four liars, one delusional, and the sixth writer who's probably asleep and didn't hear the comment in the first place.

What this long-winded post boils down to is this: I do not expect anyone -- other writers or not-- to swoon and fall at my feet because of my work; but at the same time, I do not expect to be the target of vicious discourtesy because someone gets their nose bent out of joint because I question their understanding of the use of the semicolon or don't get to their short story precisely when I say I will (and do so for free I feel compelled to add).

In even briefer terms: I treat others courtesy and respect, and I don't think it's unreasonable to expect the same in return. And I do not appreciate having personal information thrown back in my face in order for someone else to feel they've gotten the upper moral hand in an argument. Anyone who stoops to that is neither a professional nor your friend.

I'm just sayin'....