mediocrity in writing.

by rosy ricks

i attended a writer's conference last weekend in hopes of being challenged to a battle of writerly wits. to my chagrin, rather than being surrounded by the elite literati of the area, i found myself patronizing a well-read swap meet.

the focus of this festival was more sale than story structure. people wanted to know how and where to publish the heady magnificent volumes they had not yet written; unfinished manuscripts were passed from hand to quivering hand, with outlandish catchword-dripping synopsis: "well, it's a fake memoir about a bisexual vampire who wants to save humanity from aliens. it's also loosely based on my own experience as a middle school teacher and circus performer." to add to the charade, the published authors (drunk with power) held court in each workshop, advising hopefuls as if they'd won the pulitzer. most of them were local celebrities or veteran festival-goers, and that's not to say there's truly anything wrong with that. the problem i have isn't with the people associated with writing, per se. the odd mix of denizens that call themselves writers is part of the romance, the charm of belonging to a club of specialists. the problem i have is with the myth.

the writer's myth is a term i use to describe the lie haunting anyone who has ever found pleasure in their literary works, both great and small (or great, and not so great). it is the illusion that everyone is aching within the depths of their unworthy souls to devour willingly every letter that falls from the pen of anyone finds it fit to call themselves a writer. how i loathe the myth! i despise it, wish to end it through some act of mighty intellectual violence. i fantasize of slitting its throat and flaying the body, exposing the insides for all aspiring writers to see.

truth is, everyone isn't interested in reading your work. if you are writing for a specific niche, don't expect monumental cross-over and overnight international success. chances are, you are not the next dan brown, and if you do manage to get published, your name may remain in relative obscurity for the remainder of your days.

which brings me to my next point. as writers, many people believe that every drop of ink falling from the pen is deserving of a review in the times. the reality of the situation is that 99% of available published materials, and probably 99.5% of unpublished materials, are utter trash. while there are times one can accept the reality of being mediocre in certain areas and find great joy in the pursuit of the hobby, there are other times when being only slightly better than average doesn't cut the mustard. knowing how to use words properly does not a writer make. writing isn't given the same respect as other arts. it is abused by the masses, vomited into sub-par publications and used to exploit those who are addicted to story.

i can stand it no longer! i have come to accept i will never be a first-chair violinist, olympic athlete, or pilot, and never shall i entertain the idea. the time has come to kill the myth of achievable greatness. if everyone were intended to be above average, we'd have no need for the standard. we must apply this belief to our literary filter. there is a difference between marginal writing and a masterpiece. kill the myth! read with a discriminatory eye.

rosy ricks lives in milwaukee, wisconsin and is not a musician, scientist, or professional baseball player.