Musings of an Inhabitant of the Paris Metro

By a newly declared Anonym

I’m being silly.

In all honesty, the likelihood of my becoming a writer is ridiculously slim—483 of over a million books sold over 100,000 copies this year. The rest sold little more than 99. Now that’s a harsh statistic.

But did it work to discourage me? You bet not. I’ve been feeling perfectly fine after I read that article and my Internet quit out. I took a long, scalding-then-freezing shower. I brushed my teeth. I listened for a few moments to my roommate talking in her sleep and gathered blackmail for the morning. And only now, sitting at my computer, does it occur to me that maybe I should feel a little cynical.

I, Jules the Supreme Cynic of the Human Race, am still perfectly assured of my future writing career. While it may very well be the naïve faith in the fairness of the world that every other young, aspiring writer on this planet clings to with Grindylow vice grips, I don’t think my success will come any time soon. I can see myself being published in the big tops, ideally, in my early- to mid-thirties. Before then, I will have, of course, had poetry and short stories published in literary magazines, participated in writing seminars, and graduated medical school—all foundation for my future Author’s Platform (outlined in Editorial Ass’s blog, here) that publishers will be stepping on heads to secure me for themselves.

But, come on, Jules, you’re thinking. Be serious with yourself. What sets you apart from the millions of failed authors, struggling for a living? What makes you think you’ll have the time, as a neurologist, to even write that mainstream masterpiece, even if you’ll have a steady salary? Eh? EH?

Truth is, guys, I have no earthly idea. I haven’t been impressed with much of my own work. Sometimes I can be funny. Sometimes I’ll crank out a line that’s pretty cool and resonant. I’ve written a few poems I’m proud of. But my prose, as a whole, is amateur. I’m an amateur. And yet I can’t bring myself to give up on my writing career like I did my acting career, my singing career, my careers as astronauts and talk show hosts, stand up comedians, my love life, and yes, even Jason Bourne.

What does this say about me? Well, I’d like to say that this inability is due to some future twist in the Time and Space Continuum that, due to karma from letting a crying little girl named Marie be a Pilgrim instead of an Indian back in kindergarten even though I REALLY wanted to wear a bonnet and all Indians got were paper bags with weird squiggly lines on them to wear, I’m already assured a bonanza of a writing career and therefore am unable to think I won’t. But J.K. Rowling certainly wasn’t on the side of the TSC (Time and Space Continuum), even though she caught the arm of an old construction worker named Barney when he nearly tripped into a stop sign. Stephenie Meyer didn’t practice any late-night rituals worshipping the Karma Guy (neither did I, but somehow the Karma Guy looks like Peter Griffin in a toga, and that’s an amusing thought). So obviously, I need to be as woe begotten, desperate, and unlikely-to-be-famous as possible, but still write excellent, exciting, bound-to-be-popular fiction because it’s what I love to do, and not because of the name-up-in-lights writing career promised to me by mysterious, belly-dancing messengers of fate.

Oh, God.

Maybe I’m just overly confident in my own ability, even though I’m not consciously aware. Or, maybe I am aware, and am just denying it. With zest. I’m repressing my ego, everyone! It’s going to bubble over and the cork that is my head is just going to pop off when my “masterpiece” of a novel is rejected by every publisher known to man! Oh, God! Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God, oh, God, oh, God, oh, God! I’ve cracked the nutshell! And here is the nut: not pistachio, or pecan, but (and it’s very lame, I assure you)…

You just never know. And until I do know, until I’ve tried everything I can and am still rejected and old and poor and typing on my laptop in the Seattle-Tacoma airport with Stellaciel, wearing a beret and eating baguettes (and drinking steamed milk with hazelnut!), I’m just going to have to put up with this swelling bubble of hope that will ultimately be my undoing.

And until then, why not fanaticize about my radio interviews, my raving Publisher’s Weekly reviews, and my adoring fans that will leave so much fan mail that I’ll have to say, ‘Because of the overwhelming amount of fan mail, I’m putting a single thank-you message here to save me the trouble?’ I mean, what else have I got to think about? My novel?

Ha, good one, Jules. Real funny. NOW GET THE SHEEP-IN-BUCKET-HELL WRITING!