The Write Man

When my wife graduated from Paoli High School in 1979, her guidance counselor, Ned W. Toms, presented her with a book. Written by Joan Costello and called The Concise Handbook of Occupations, it listed 305 vocations in alphabetical order. My wife studied the book carefully, mulling over each career—actress, bellman, a farmer of tobacco, nun, rabbi—but by rabbi, she was 18 letters into the alphabet with only a handful of entries remaining, and moving into the S’s made her nervous. She skimmed past salesman, stevedore, stonemason. Then she stumbled upon systems analyst and was hooked. She went to college, graduated, and analyzed systems for the next 18 years. For as long as she did it, I had no idea what the job entailed, only that it paid well and gave her migraines.

I was curious to see what The Concise Handbook of Occupations had to say about writers. In that entry, the author of the book lets her bias show. “A writer is an artist,” begins her paragraph about writers. There are a number of ways one could have begun such a paragraph: “A writer is often unemployed,” “A writer is usually preoccupied and grumpy,” or “A writer is someone who flopped in his or her first career.” But Ms. Costello took the high road and described us as artists. I’ve never met Joan Costello, but I admire her judgment.

The picture accompanying the description shows a man, anxious and fretting. His chair is too high, his desk is too low, and he’s scrunched over a typewriter. He’s also wearing glasses with lenses the size of windshields. That’s a writer: bent, blind, and nervous. The caption reads: “The ability to concentrate is extremelyimportant to a writer. He must have enough self-discipline to work alone for long periods of time.” I have a handful of virtues, but concentration and discipline have eluded my grasp. I sit at my desk to write, think of someone, and pick up the phone to blab. Or I’ll remember the brownies my wife baked the previous day and go to the kitchen to see if any are left. I know a lot of writers, and they are as easily distracted as I am. Writers are always on the prowl for something else to do.

“Writing is a very difficult and pain-staking task,” Ms. Costello observes. We writers enjoy mentioning the onerous nature of our vocation and find a way to work it into every conversation. Yet despite our efforts to educate the public about our travails, writing remains a popular aspiration. These days, everythird person is writing a book. “If I only had more time,” they say, as if their schedule is the only obstacle keeping them from getting published. I would never say to a brain surgeon, “If I only had more time, I would cut open someone’s head.” Ms. Costello forgot to mention that writers don’t get much respect.

“Authors travel broadly,” says the handbook. Not this author. Once a week, I drive the 20 miles to Charley Riggle’s hardware store in Roachdale, which is as broad as my travel gets. I do spend a lot of time thinking about traveling broadly and discussing that possibility with my wife. But years ago, we discovered that the best part of traveling is the anticipation of it. Now we skip the travel part—the cramped airplanes, the missed flights, the stalled traffic, the seaside cottage that looks nothing like the one in the sales brochure—and just talk about travel, saving ourselves moneyand misery. A friend of mine loves to travel. Whenever we’re together he talks about where he’s been or where he’s headed. I smile, nod my head, and act interested. But I don’t understand his fascination with the road. Most everything that happens elsewhere happens in my town. I agree with Marcel Proust, who said, “The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes.” In life, people are born, fall in love, marry, have children, and then die. Same story the world over. No need to visit France to see if matters are different there.

“Authors live in unusual places to do their research,” The Concise Handbook of Occupations notes. I do all my research in Danville, where I have lived most of my life. In all those years, I have heard my town described with a variety of adjectives, but never unusual. Perhaps a little odd at times, and occasionally quirky, but unusual is a tad strong.

I can’t help but think the author of the handbook was tooting her own horn when she wrote, “A writer is observant, analytical, and patient.” I can be analytical in a pinch, but patience is a real stretch for me. When I get an idea, I am hell-bent to get it done. My wife is always urging me to let my ideas season, but she’s talking months and even years, while I am thinking five to 10 minutes. As for the observant part, it’s true—writers are constantly trolling for new material. We pick new friends on the basis of whether or not they will be good fodder for an essay, an article, or a book. I know a writer who once dated a woman purely for her story potential. The relationship didn’t last, but he got several magazine articles out of the arrangement and considered the venture a success.

Lest budding writers think the job is a stroll in the park, Ms. Costello warns, “Writing is a difficult, competitive field, and relatively few writers support themselves completely by writing.” In other words, kids, don’t quit your day job. I gave up mine shortly after my first book came out, took out a mortgage, and have been a knot of worry ever since.

The upside of writing, after one gets past the fretting, is the flexibility. “Writers usually set their own hours,” the handbook states. That is true, and if you prize flexibility, then writing is for you. You can work as many hours as you want, and usually do, well into the night, when people with normal jobs are in bed. You can work on Saturdays and Sundays, and on Thanksgiving and Christmas, too. Indeed, there is no limit to the hours you can work, especially if your editor is phoning every day to check your progress.

Fortunately, the handbook happily reports that “the employment outlook is good for talented writers.” The book was published in 1975, so I’m not sure our prospects are still as rosy. But if writing doesn’t pan out, the handbook lists 304 other occupations we can try: butcher, gas station attendant, FBI agent. Or perhaps even a pilot, for whom, I suppose, the sky really is the limit.