Dick Cavett sat on the stage and confided in us. He had finally made it to the big time, national television, with the stage all to himself. He was earning big money for this hour of glory. And he knew we were smart enough to know how big the big money was, bigger than anything we could ever hope to earn.
He smiled and looked directly into the camera. That, he said, [his fame and money, of course] is something he intends to take home and point out to all those sniveling wretches back in his home town, the ones who used to make him feel small.
I’m sorry they hurt his feelings. Really. But, just the same, it seemed like a pretty nasty thought for someone who had been given the whole stage to himself.
I quit watching Mr. Cavett. And I felt sorry for his friends back home.
Now, about Woody Allen? I wasn’t surprised at all when he talked about the poor slobs he had left behind.
I never felt really convinced about all his self-deprecation. It just seemed too commercial for my tastes, particularly lending itself to a movie mogul’s smug attitude…I’m on top, and I’m sure you’d sell your soul to have lunch with me. And don’t you wish you had thought of that when I was just a little schmuck in your high school biology class?
I had never watched Woody Allen. After seeing his poor schmuck chortle, I knew why.
After all, if he were truly self-deprecating,
…it might occur to him that his life would be slightly improved,
…if he took time out of his Hollywood day to have lunch with me.
I think of these people only because I plan to send off a manuscript soon. I’m reminded daily that I’d better plan on having it rejected mega-zillion times.
I’ve been through enough rejection in the past forty years to think I might finally know how to handle it. After all, even the biggest seller on the New York Times list is still unknown to 95% of the world.
I don’t need a huge audience. Over the years, I’ve been content to write each of my stories to one special person. My reward each time was the smile of a friend who recognized something special about herself in my words.
I don’t need to be famous.
I don’t need to be rich.
When I drop the envelope in the mailbox, I’ll remember that rejection is just a “phase.” It should be just a stair step to the second person who might read a story of mine and recognize a little bit of truth. And if the story brings a smile to her face, and if she’s an editor, just maybe that might be enough to put my story and my book into print. And that’s only worth something if it makes a third person smile and think of something good to tell her own friends.
In the scheme of things, having a book in print is not such a big deal. It’s most certainly not big enough to lord it over all the people who have been a part of my life. Even if they didn’t like me very much.
After all, good stories can be written even about people who don’t like us, and if that’s not enough to make us grateful for the experience of knowing we’re dislikable, it certainly doesn’t give us reason to spit in their face.
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THE WRITER’S LIFE