"Who is the happier man: he who has braved the storm of life and lived or he who has stayed securely on the shore and merely existed?"-Hunter S. Thompson at the age of 17.
"As always I am rebuked for my wise advice, I will say my intentions were of the kindest and greatest nature. I just do not wish that Sam wastes away his life with this false ambition. Poor kid, you never know the joy and splendor that is publication. You will spend your life scribbling away on some notion that it means something, that it will all add up. There is no room for hack writers in this business."-Jack
"Well, well, well, how long has it been, Sam? Six months have seemed to pass since I advised you to quit writing and was scolded by your readers. I see that my counsel has gone unheeded and it has not deterred you from writing thirteen more posts in this pathetic excuse of a blog. Riches and renown from publication are far from your grasp. Where are your readers to chide me away now. So why are you still writing? Your audience has abandoned you. Why try, then? Why write when it gives nothing back? Throw down your pen and paper. Stay away from the computer. Give a rest. You will waste away your life with this charade."-Jack
Questions must be springing into your minds like fireworks on a calm winter night, just too many and too bright for recollection, or comprehension for that matter. These are just a few of the comments that I have received from this person who calls himself Jack. From what I can make of him, he must be some writer who took his shot and missed, or perhaps he is the real deal. Maybe he's some idiot racing around the Internet dumping criticisms onto those he stumbles upon. I cannot be certain. I am certain of one thing, that his comments mean nothing to me.
I have bounced from my bed each and every day of December like a little kid on Christmas Day, stampeding down the stairs with the rest of his family to check what Good Old Saint Nick left in our stockings and under the Christmas tree, but instead of that I have checked my email account to see if Rockstar Games left anything, some notice exclaiming "Congratulations, Sam. You have won The Rockstar Uploads 4 Short Fiction Contest. An affavidit is being sent through the mail for you to sign to confirm that your writing is your own and no else's. After we've received that, your check will be sent shortly afterward. Once again, congratulations." Unfortunately, nothing of the sort has happened. I would rather have been told that my story hadn't made the cut than to sit here waiting, not knowing what is happening. Yes, three thousand dollars would have definitely lifted a bit of burden off my shoulders. Yes, I am making an assumption, but I did not enter the contest solely for the grand prize. I did it because the contest provided a chance for me to show my quality, the very highest, to put myself and my writing to the hazard and to the judgement of absolute strangers, to have my writing compared to quite possibly a million other writers. I cannot rightfully say whether I won or lost here, but I can say that I tried my best.
Writing is in my nature. I found my Young Authors book recently and it reminded me of the fact that no writer is born. "Jack the Lego Maniac" was my first venture into the world of fiction writing. Any thoughts of seriously writing were far from my mind's grasp. I remember hating the whole ordeal, being forced to write, what an abomination. That was elementary school. I would later go on to junior high and high school to find more forced writing for all. How horrible. I took a Creative Writing class the second semester of my junior year of high school. I believe that is where I actually began thinking about writing seriously and I have been ever since. I love it.
So here I am, doing exactly what you don't want me to do, Jack. What made you think that you could pop into my life, tell me to stop writing, and believe that you are in the right? Yeah, perhaps you're right. My name will never be mentioned among all the great writers that dared to pick up the pen and tell a tale, at least not in this lifetime. The odds are that I will probably never get published. I might forget to sit down and write that novel that I know that lives inside me, but none of this stops my pen. I am not discouraged by these thoughts. I write because I have a love for it it that is genuine, pure. The words are waiting on their tips to be chosen, to be used, waiting for the chance to escape onto page and last forever. The greatest reward a writer could receive is not that grand prize of $3,000, that million dollar movie deal, or that third bestseller. This reward often goes by unnoticed in this commercial world we live in because it holds no real monetary value. The reward is the fact that someone somewhere at sometime read your words and it really meant something.
"As always I am rebuked for my wise advice, I will say my intentions were of the kindest and greatest nature. I just do not wish that Sam wastes away his life with this false ambition. Poor kid, you never know the joy and splendor that is publication. You will spend your life scribbling away on some notion that it means something, that it will all add up. There is no room for hack writers in this business."-Jack
"Well, well, well, how long has it been, Sam? Six months have seemed to pass since I advised you to quit writing and was scolded by your readers. I see that my counsel has gone unheeded and it has not deterred you from writing thirteen more posts in this pathetic excuse of a blog. Riches and renown from publication are far from your grasp. Where are your readers to chide me away now. So why are you still writing? Your audience has abandoned you. Why try, then? Why write when it gives nothing back? Throw down your pen and paper. Stay away from the computer. Give a rest. You will waste away your life with this charade."-Jack
Questions must be springing into your minds like fireworks on a calm winter night, just too many and too bright for recollection, or comprehension for that matter. These are just a few of the comments that I have received from this person who calls himself Jack. From what I can make of him, he must be some writer who took his shot and missed, or perhaps he is the real deal. Maybe he's some idiot racing around the Internet dumping criticisms onto those he stumbles upon. I cannot be certain. I am certain of one thing, that his comments mean nothing to me.
I have bounced from my bed each and every day of December like a little kid on Christmas Day, stampeding down the stairs with the rest of his family to check what Good Old Saint Nick left in our stockings and under the Christmas tree, but instead of that I have checked my email account to see if Rockstar Games left anything, some notice exclaiming "Congratulations, Sam. You have won The Rockstar Uploads 4 Short Fiction Contest. An affavidit is being sent through the mail for you to sign to confirm that your writing is your own and no else's. After we've received that, your check will be sent shortly afterward. Once again, congratulations." Unfortunately, nothing of the sort has happened. I would rather have been told that my story hadn't made the cut than to sit here waiting, not knowing what is happening. Yes, three thousand dollars would have definitely lifted a bit of burden off my shoulders. Yes, I am making an assumption, but I did not enter the contest solely for the grand prize. I did it because the contest provided a chance for me to show my quality, the very highest, to put myself and my writing to the hazard and to the judgement of absolute strangers, to have my writing compared to quite possibly a million other writers. I cannot rightfully say whether I won or lost here, but I can say that I tried my best.
Writing is in my nature. I found my Young Authors book recently and it reminded me of the fact that no writer is born. "Jack the Lego Maniac" was my first venture into the world of fiction writing. Any thoughts of seriously writing were far from my mind's grasp. I remember hating the whole ordeal, being forced to write, what an abomination. That was elementary school. I would later go on to junior high and high school to find more forced writing for all. How horrible. I took a Creative Writing class the second semester of my junior year of high school. I believe that is where I actually began thinking about writing seriously and I have been ever since. I love it.
So here I am, doing exactly what you don't want me to do, Jack. What made you think that you could pop into my life, tell me to stop writing, and believe that you are in the right? Yeah, perhaps you're right. My name will never be mentioned among all the great writers that dared to pick up the pen and tell a tale, at least not in this lifetime. The odds are that I will probably never get published. I might forget to sit down and write that novel that I know that lives inside me, but none of this stops my pen. I am not discouraged by these thoughts. I write because I have a love for it it that is genuine, pure. The words are waiting on their tips to be chosen, to be used, waiting for the chance to escape onto page and last forever. The greatest reward a writer could receive is not that grand prize of $3,000, that million dollar movie deal, or that third bestseller. This reward often goes by unnoticed in this commercial world we live in because it holds no real monetary value. The reward is the fact that someone somewhere at sometime read your words and it really meant something.
posted by Sam | 2:59 AM
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