This piece appears in the La Vida Local section of today's Durango Telegraph.
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Instead of dropping out, I just stopped going, hence the F. I later joked with the professor of the course when we were colleagues, “You know Bob Dylan would have been proud of me to get an F in that course.”
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I have a
confession to make: bookstores make me feel insecure. Well, at least until two
weeks ago they did. Ever since I started being published as a writer, ten plus
years ago, I’ve had a strange feeling, ever increasing throughout the years,
about the fact that when I walked into a bookstore or library I didn’t have a
book of my own on the shelves.
That all changed when I finally got my first
book, Climbing Out of Bed, onto the
shelves of Maria’s Bookshop and the Durango Public Library a couple weeks ago.
I feel like I finally lost my literary virginity, and when I walked into
Maria’s the other day and saw my book, well, it was a first time I’ll never
forget.
Bob Dylan once said, “there’s no success like
failure and failure’s no success at all.” Of course Dylan, he said it all, and
along with some of my other favorite artists: Jack Kerouac, Ed Abbey, Gabriel
Garcia-Marquez, John Long and Jay-Z, I realized long ago there was nothing new
under the sun. If I were to become an artist myself it would only be through
imitation, after the first artist, only the copyist.
I had the dream about my book a decade ago, and
mostly used it as a conversation piece while flirting
with girls. I was a climbing bum, who wrote every once and a while, calling
myself a writer, but hardly dedicated. Girls seem to be impressed by my
aspirations, but I only really got serious about writing when I had tendonitis
and couldn’t climb full-time anymore, stranded in Salt Lake City, Utah for a
winter. I decided to start applying for a full-time job as a writer.
I eventually landed a gig with my alma mater up
at Western State, in Gunnison, writing public relations stories for the college,
learning that writing nearly every day is the only way you’ll ever make it as a
writer. I had access to all sorts of academic types that had been published,
and saw the vision of my dream coming to fruition, if I really wanted to write
a book I could make it happen with dedication and discipline.
The ironic thing about my situation: my
co-workers were some of the same ones that mentored (and tormented) me through
those awkward young twenty-something years of college. My brother has this
theory that when a young man is say, 20 years old, he is like a one year old
puppy. The puppy may look like a full-grown dog, but he is just stumbling
around, making a mess, and making mistakes along the way, until he learns how
to be a dog. I couldn’t agree more, at least for my own former self.
Looking back more, perhaps my greatest
collegiate accomplishment was an English class I got an F in. No joke, it was
called Bob Dylan 301, an entire semester of studying Bob Dylan’s work. I loved
the idea of getting credit for listening to Dylan, but didn’t exactly enjoy
having to analyze another writer’s work, I never have. I’d rather create my own
art than analyze another’s.
Instead of dropping out, I just stopped going, hence the F. I later joked with the professor of the course when we were colleagues, “You know Bob Dylan would have been proud of me to get an F in that course.”
Without
hesitation he replied, “I think you’re right,” with a big grin.
About
seven years ago I compiled a list of drafts for my book, untitled, unorganized,
but a draft nonetheless. One summer I managed to get into a writer’s conference
at Western State for free, and one professor who had been brought in to
instruct at the conference was particularly impressed with the way I wrote
words. “I work these writing conferences all summer,” he said. “Usually most of
the people don’t belong here, I’d say only one percent are actually going to
make it as writers. You are part of that one percent.”
Ego swelled. I went on to pitch him on my book.
(The professor had twenty-some books published.) It would be a collection of
climbing and mountain town stories, covering topics ranging from buildering
(climbing buildings) to couch surfing. He quickly replied back, “I don’t think
that’s a very good idea. It won’t work.” Ego deflated.
My dream of getting my book done only came to
fruition when I left the 9-5 gig. Like Forest Gump’s mom said, “God works in
mysterious ways,” I had to leave my writing job to truly write what I was
destined to create. After two years of solid work on the book, writing and
editing every day I wasn’t on a climbing trip, I finally had a draft. Then the
process of pitching to publishers began.
Writing a book is one thing, getting it
published is another ball game. It’s like getting into a nightclub when you’re
not wearing the right clothes, or with the right people. If you’re a
dirtbag-climbing bum-writer like myself you have to sneak in the back door.
I do have some connections in the publishing
world, mostly with magazines, and I solicited each and every one for advice.
They gave a surprisingly short list of companies that publish writing from the
climbing culture. I submitted my manuscript the most recommended first, and
after four months of waiting got my first ever rejection letter, on Valentine’s
Day! I was single that particular V-Day, adding to the sting. Ouch. After
submitted to a couple more publishers and getting rejected, I eventually
decided to self-publish.
I discovered that back door is increasingly
open, and all types of new technology are making it easier and easier (not to
mention financially feasible) to self-publish. The process wasn’t easy, but the
story has a happy ending, and my dream was finally realized.
Being a writer is something I have to do now, rather
than something I’m trying to become. It’s in my blood and if I go a little
while without writing, I’m simply not myself. Just ask those close to me. In
the end, that’s the reward, my work doesn’t feel like work most of the time.
Like usual I’m struggling how to wrap up my La Vida Local for the month, so I’ll
leave you with some words from another artist, Macklemore, who after years of
struggling, finally made it in the hip-hop world, in his own way, without the
support of a major label, “A life lived for art is never a life wasted.”
