The master and the mastered.

Writing is a giddy romance, a bitter break-up, a fleeting moment with the divine, a lifetime in purgatory. It can promise you everything and deliver you nothing. You may try to master it, but invariably it becomes your master.

I’m 53 years old with one published novel to my name. Said novel, Red Time, published by small Gippsland press Feather Knight Books, sold in the low hundreds. But even that meagre success grants me the grand title of ‘author’ and probably puts me above thousands, if not millions, of other people with literary ambitions. (You can boost those sales here!)

To say I have been obsessed with the idea of making a living as an author would be the biggest of understatement. Yet, as each year passes, it’s a dream that dwindles. And, in the end, who cares? Isn’t success just validation, a little steroid injection for the fragile, depleted ego? Well, hell yeah, but can I have some, please?

“some of my comrades will have sold millions, some a piddling few. I suspect we all have one thing in common though...”

—

Red Time was about a transient footballer dealing with the murder of his mother and trying to make good on a promise to avenge her death (while attempting to win a premiership for a chronically underperforming team). It was gritty, with lots of swearing, action and a sex scene that made some people blush.

I was proud of it but, when the dust settled and the adrenaline rush of the launch and some early good press faded, I woke to the realisation that publication doesn’t necessarily mean money and movie rights bidding wars (though I do still imagine the book as a film, with one of the Hemsworths as the footballing vagabond Mick Stewart).

Since Red Time, I’ve kicked around an idea (pun intended) that has flowered into something after countless iterations. My characters have been above the earth and below it, battling serial killers, cannibals, psychotics, humanoids and a killer climate-induced wave over countless drafts, only to be called back to their starting points with each new retelling. If it’s exhausting for me, then it’s far more exhausting for them.

And, I thought I had it right. I thought I’d finally nailed it. I’d even sent it to a few agents and a few publishers. But now I’m in retreat again. It’s time for the grind. Another draft. It’s dawned on me – well, my astute teenage daughter (a writer herself, poor thing) – that the story is told from too many characters’ points of view, an effect that can create confusion. So, now I’ll (re)write from one character’s point of view. It’s a technique, I hope, that will improve the story and give the reader greater insight into my hero’s mind and motivations.

This one’s a far different animal to Red Time, and I’ve assumed the nom de plume, Matthew Joseph. The Artificials (working title) is young adult fiction. So, if you happen to see it at your local bookshop in years to come, know that it’s been written by someone who has battled hard to find writing success. Some of my comrades will have sold millions, some a piddling few. I suspect we all have one thing in common though: the need to write.

I may have that ambition of grand success, but the likelihood of it ever arriving is slim. Will I show up to the page regardless? Yes, for my master demands it.

—

Gippslandia - Issue No. 32

Find, Subscribe or Download.

Did you enjoy this article? Let us know on Facebook or Instagram.