Allart van Everdingen: Rabbit meets Reynard in Field (17th century)

"The difference sure feels profound, though…"

As a writer, I mostly work through surrogates. It's not precisely that I do not show up for work when I work. It's more that when working, I primarily project. However introspective one of my stories might seem, creating them amounts to an act of extreme extroversion for this extraordinarily introverted writer. I usually speak to someone else when creating, my mythical reader, or the ether. Writing for me has never been a dialogue with myself, or even with the deaf. Even when I edit a fresh piece, it's more of an out-of-body experience than a conversation. I might burgle the opportunity for me to read my writing by the very act of creating it. It seems at least vaguely familiar even on first reading, probably because I just finished writing it. Editing demands a certain cold-hearted distance, akin to pruning shrubs or weeding tomatoes —a certain indifference. It is hardly an intimate act, best done at an emotional distance.

So, it was a rare occurrence when I found myself re-re-reading my Cluelessness manuscript, recently returned from final copyediting before publication, and caught myself immersed in what must have been myself. Distanced enough from the creation of the work, and wading through the editor's suggestions, I could not maintain any sense of authorship while completing the job. I expected it to feel grueling, but I was shocked when it didn't. I even caught myself procrastinating to prolong the effort. I found the experience uncommonly pleasing. The magic, however modestly anticipated, visited. I felt the sense of renewal that a reader experiences when encountering something truly special on a page. I felt moved in ways I rarely feel moved by anything these days.

Later, I caught myself being out in the world as an author. I remembered when, all those long years ago, The Blind Men was first released, when the universe seemed destined to become my oyster, well before it became a best seller. Whatever other shortcomings I might have achieved in my life, I'd experienced a pinnacle. I felt sure that nothing could ever diminish the exhilaration. It felt like fatherhood again. I felt certain of my identity in ways uncharacteristic of me, who'd always wondered who he might become should he ever finally manage to grow up. Then I knew and no longer held that otherwise unresolvable mystery. I had finally become me.

With whom do I have the pleasure of encountering here? I apologize if I sound as though I'm unfamiliar with you. I do not remember when we last met face-to-face, or if we've ever met each other before. It's a genuine pleasure. No, I cannot imagine anybody else writing this book. It accurately represents your world view, which has always been unlike any other's. The portrait builds until a real sense of your presence remains. What did you say your name was again? Him? Where have you been?

Authorship is not as intimate an act as even an author suspects. Like wine, it requires some time in isolation, absorbing something other than sustenance from its originating vine. It must be influenced by perspectives never present at any moment of conception. The first pass, the initial post, inevitably tastes like new wine, fine for any purpose except fine dining. A vintage requires great patience and attention to too many incredibly picky details. Not every grower has it in them to become a winemaker. Not every writer could ever become an author. The differences seem subtle until some writer experiences the transformation. Then, he will likely have no ready explanation and be unable to make a coherent distinction between the one and the other. The difference sure feels profound, though, to this writer, lately cum author again.

©2025 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: #FollowingChapters, #PureSchmaltz