As a wanna-be-writer-type, I’ve never had a mentor, writer’s group, or guided workshop for how to steer my prose in more appropriate directions. Instead, I’ve put myself in the lonely and doubtful vacuum, vacillating between the delusional highs of endless possibility and the crushing lows of rejection and self-loathing. (Not the healthiest approach)

Having come from Park Slope, Brooklyn, where every third human in the coffee line has a published novel, and every other grossly overpriced adjacent brunch table to mine held overheard conversation about some novel in progress, moving to suburban/rural Massachusetts was a shift away from the literary mainstream. (There’s a bloated sentence)

Here, I knew no one, and though I found myself in a small town with a great deal of literary juju in it’s own right, the only name I’d regularly heard bandied about as a writing local of similar genre was someone with a very well known and seasoned career—light years ahead of me, with my one soon-to-be/now published YA book from a small publisher.

Nevertheless, his was the name that local librarians, book store owners, and neighbors kept throwing out as the guy to talk to. He was described universally as someone of great generosity, kindness and easy accessibility, despite the fame he had earned over many years of writing. This was not how most successful writers in NYC presented themselves, and such a concept seemed innately dubious to me because of it.

Still, I found myself emailing this individual out of the blue, trying to hit the tightrope balance of not coming across as too desperate, too sycophantic, or too ashamed to be bothering him with an unsolicited request for advice.

Here’s the thing, if I were someone who has spent decades working my ass off to gain fame and success in the arts, would I respond to an unsolicited enquiry for help among, no doubt, countless such requests per week? The answer is/was very probably no.

This individual, however, emailed me back. Then he emailed me back again and set a date to meet over coffee. There was a minor miscommunication over the day, and so I ended up crashing his quiet time a day early (way to go rookie!) Still, he gave me an hour of his day, with a free flowing and frank conversation about life, writing, the pitfalls of success and failure, and the simple struggles of getting through the week.

He was open, generous with his thoughts and feelings, and completely authentic in a way that so many successful folk in the arts fail to maintain. For a first-timer like me, it was refreshing and inspiring.

He had been having a shit day amid a shit week, but this did not deter him in the least from giving to a total stranger. This is a writer who has earned his success—and perhaps that’s the necessary ingredient. The life he sought was not handed over after his first novel or even his third, but he kept plugging away, learning to write for himself and not some dictates of the time or the perceived audience. That was how he finally found the big break. Writing something that hadn’t really been done before, tapping into a pocket of the collective consciousness that had yet to be defined. He defined it.

He probably doesn’t even know this, but this simple yet so generous use of one of his hours will help to define me as a writer. Not in what winds up on the page, but in how I will strive to conduct myself outside of it. Whether i ever find success or not, I will try to emulate his often exhausting, abused, and unrequited generosity to those who come seeking it. Not because it’s easy, or to bolster his ego, but because it’s right.

In a serendipitous turn, I was that very day contacted by a 22-year-old fellow who I’d recently met who wanted to talk with me about writing, movie making and the creative pursuits. As soon as I’m done typing this, I will respond to him, and regardless of what happens to any of us, hopefully these small gestures of goodness will build momentum and continue to make a little difference here and there.

Thank you unnamed writer. You are one of the good guys.

-c.s.