I spoke with a friend and coworker the other day and I mentioned something that has been sitting at the back of my mind for a while. I phrased it as follows: “I could be better than average; or, I could be better than the best. I think I’d rather be better than the best.”
I specifically spoke regarding my writing abilities. Most of my friends whom I have had read my short stories, or even my novels, have heard me speak of my favorite author: John Steinbeck. It had been a while since I’d read anything of his, however, so about a week or two ago, I picked up a copy of East of Eden from a local used book store. (Interestingly enough, I also picked up Crime and Punishment by Dostoyevsky, and The Name of the Rose by Umberto Eco, marking the first time in my life that I’ve had my favorite American, my favorite Russian, and my favorite Italian author all in my backpack at the same time.)
Reading East of Eden really is sitting at the feet of the master. In my opinion, the best currently living author is Stephen King (despite, as my coworker pointed out to me, the fact that he is quite able to lay a real turkey from time to time—this means you, The Cell). I’ve read quite a lot of King lately, but while reading East of Eden I had to acknowledge that if Steinbeck had ever wanted to write horror, he would have shamed King. Just the fact of how creepy Cathy is in East of Eden demonstrates his skill there.
Steinbeck had the skill of writing what I consider to be throw-away scenes that you couldn’t throw away. Throw-away scenes don’t really advance the plot much, and as a minimalist I’d probably look to cut them. But Steinbeck wrote them in such a manner that by the end of the scene, I would sit there and go, “That scene didn’t advance the plot at all, and yet, man, I wish I could write like that!” He wrote so well it almost seems effortless.
I wonder how it truly was. I only have myself to compare to, and my technique seems to be “Write fast, edit slow.” Just as an example, I wrote a short story in 2003 called Thinking In Code. I’ve edited it for six years. And this year, I’m finally satisfied with it to the point that I’m going to enter it into a short story contest.
Now the basics of the story were done six years ago. The plot hasn’t changed at all. What has changed is that I’ve cut about 500 words from it, and each time I’ve edited it I’ve come away thinking, “This story is just a little bit tighter than it was before.” I honestly think that I am now at the point where it is impossible to make any improvement to the text. I could still make changes, but now they’d be at best neutral changes and at worst they’d harm the way the text flows.
It took six years to get to that point, but I can read the story in less than five minutes.
It reminds me of something else I said to my coworker friend. I have a theory about the sophomore slump. You know how an author gets his first book published and it’s a success, and his second book comes out and it’s just pathetic? The same thing happens with bands—their first album is a smash, their second a dud. I think there’s a simple reason for that, and it goes back to Thinking In Code.
Suppose that I win the contest I’m entering. I’m entering with a work that took me six years to iron out. But now I’ve got “clout.” I’ve got “exposure.” I write another short story and send it off, but I’ve only spent six months on it rather than six years.
Would anyone be surprised that it wouldn’t do as well? Would anyone be surprised that the reason it wouldn’t do as well is precisely because it wasn’t written as well?
The sophomore slump happens, in my opinion, because most writers are not yet the best they can be when they get their first book published. They’ve worked exclusively on one passion and that enables their first book to make up for the deficiencies of their lack of skill. But the second book suffers because there is now demand that exceeds the talent of the author. The author has yet to write enough to gain the skills required to produce a skilled text every time. He may not need as many years as he did for the first novel, but he needs more than the year they give him after his first.
That’s a bit of a side-trail, yet I suppose it’s also linked to my main point. As I think about where I am now, I know there is nothing I’d love more than to be a full time writer. To not have to work at all, to be paid to daydream and tell others about it. But I don’t want to write just to scratch a creative itch.
I want to be the best.
Forty years after my death, I want someone to say, “When I read Peter Pike, it’s like sitting at the feet of the master storyteller.” And while that sounds like something an egomaniacal man would say, oddly I don’t feel that way. Perhaps I’m deluding myself and really am egocentric. But I don’t want the fame (‘though I wouldn’t mind the fortune) so much as I just want to actually be that good at what I do.
I could settle for being better than Dan Brown (hey, if you can write anything you’ve accomplished that!), or I could settle for being better than Stephen King. But why settle for any of that when I could be better than Steinbeck?
In the worst case, if I shoot for the best and fail, at least I’ll have failed gloriously.
