odds

Reading yesterday afternoon: Rubicon.

Morning notes: Rubicon, Alexander the Great.

Yesterday I went through a mini-cycle of depression and elation. In the morning I looked in at a writer's blog by Lee Goldberg, a published writer of series novels such as Monk and Diagnosis: Murder. The blog deals partly with issues such as (the pitfalls of) self-publication, and generally has a "commercial" feel to it. But even though he's a good head and says good things, I get put off by material on the publication and marketing aspects of writing. I'm not there yet, for one thing. For another, it starts making me think about odds.

In general, I don't believe in odds. If you believe in odds, you're finished, because in writing the odds are always against you. Sometimes massively so. You should never ask, "What are my chances?" Because the answer is: approximately zero. Your best mental strategy is: "I'm going to do this anyway, whether I get published or not." You need to be driven.

I've already done the impossible. When Warren and I created The Odyssey, we set out to launch a dramatic TV series without leaving our hometown of Vancouver. Theoretically, this can't be done, but we did it anyway. We didn't believe in odds. Other writers have said things to me like, "You were bone lucky." Maybe. But I don't really believe in luck. I believe in destiny.

Usually. But when I read about the vast numbers of writers shoving heaps of material at a seemingly shrinking number of potential buyers, I sometimes blanch. How to get heard above the noise? I myself have shoved material at agents (and have even had a couple of agents), and had the great majority of them brush me off, sometimes with comments that suggested that my work was not that good. (Well, I did ask for it. Although I usually think: "Oh yeah? Let's take a look at the stuff you think is ok, buddy...")

C'est la vie. I take heart again in the words of Robert McKee. This is from his book, Story:

By the 1990s script development in Hollywood climbed to over $500 million per annum, three quarters of which is paid to writers for options and rewrites on films that will never be made. Despite a half-billion dollars and the exhaustive efforts of development personnel, Hollywood cannot find better material than it produces. The hard-to-believe truth is that what we see on the screen each year is a reasonable reflection of the best writing of the last few years....

With rare exceptions, unrecognized genius is a myth.... For writers who can tell a quality story, it's a seller's market--always has been, always will be.

This to me has the ring of truth. The best teachers and mentors, including McKee (and Lee Goldberg), tell you to put your effort into quality. That's your best marketing strategy, and it's the one I have opted for.

Yesterday, the mere reminder of the existence of the publishing business, and of all my fellow writers wriggling like sperm toward the egg of a sale, depressed me. But as the day wore on, I got better. When I went out after teatime to pick up 2 liters of 1% milk at Safeway (along with a loaf of bread and, on impulse, a bag of Miss Vickie's regular-flavor potato chips), and walked from the store to the damp parking-lot, I felt confident. I felt good. My book will have power. I felt a kind of energy running from the earth into me. I was not worried at all.

Years ago I read about the great sailing-ships of yore. They used to have a canvas they would put up behind the steersman so that he couldn't look behind him. Evidently the steersmen, when they could look behind them, would sometimes see waves looming over the ship, and flee their post in panic. With the canvas up, no problem.

My "canvas" consists of sticking to my knitting, and not paying attention to material on the publication business. Not until it's time.