Certain things are clear to me in retrospect. One is that I seldom made decisions in the best interests of "my literary career." That's because I never thought of what I was doing in these terms. Writing wasn't a career. It was a calling. It never occurred to me to do things in the "best interests" of a career, and so I didn't. In particular, two decisions slammed shut doors that had just been opened to me.
- Going from fiction to playwriting, for example. When I dropped out of grad school "to become a writer," I had relatively early success and validation. I was selling journalism and publishing regularly in literary magazines, both in less than a year. If this hadn't happened, if I'd gone a considerable time without validation, would I have stuck with it? Hard to say. But I was encouraged early, and at the national level. When I returned to grad school, I actually was publishing literary short fiction more often in more prestigious places than my teachers were. But I also was having a hell of a time with my thesis, a novel. I even had agents, who had written me and not the other way around, waiting for it. But it was a nut I didn't seem able to crack. This is why the transition to playwriting happened and was relatively easy. Playwriting played to my strengths -- character, dialogue, storytelling -- and ignored my weakness -- descriptive prose. So just when I was getting a break in literary fiction, most significantly getting a Roll of Honor citation in Best American Short Stories in 3 of 4 consecutive years in the early 1970s, I abandoned fiction.
- Going from traditional theater to hyperdrama. The same thing happened a decade later. My plays were getting noticed. I had an agent in NY who was excited about my work. The producing tycoon Harold Prince had become a fan of my work. Things were looking great -- until I received a commission to write a new kind of play and became totally obsessed with hyperdrama. I abandoned traditional theater.
I don't regret these choices. But clearly they were made at a time that reduced "traditional" opportunities that were becoming available to me. I was following my calling, not my career.
No, these decisions are not the basis of my question today. The basis is this: I had no idea how much it tales out of one's body and soul to write seriously. It's like running one existential marathon after another. Looking back, I'm amazed I survived -- or at least survived as long as I have. The fat lady hasn't sung yet.
If I knew the price, maybe I'd have done something easier. Because one also has to ask, okay, this is the price, was it worth it? I used to think the literary culture mattered more and was healthier than I believe it is today. I used to think the calling was more than it's own reward, that it paid dividends to others. I'm not so sure. Maybe the literary life is a sophisticated form of existential masturbation.
Well, even self-abuse can be fun, and I've had a hell of good time, no doubt about it, meeting a number of great people along the way. But maybe if I hadn't had early validation and encouragement, maybe if I'd become a math teacher, maybe I wouldn't feel like I just finished running a marathon.
I'll never know.
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