The long communal table at which we sat was loaded with men doing business in groups of two or three, women seeking a chance to meet men with money, couples on dates who chose this venue as a means of deferring intimacy while retaining some form of attractiveness. It was a semi-dark room that was private the way only loud public places can be- their very noise and controlled uproar providing a barrier against the kind of full attention that often strips away quiet thoughts and impressions.
The gentleman made a sweeping gesture and asked, "Crazy, isn't it?"
I nodded, trying not to appear supercilious, knowing my t-shirt and jeans made me appear to be above the people who had to dress up to go to work.
"Newport Beach," I replied, "This is pretty usual."
With that the conversation began in earnest. We discussed professions (he was an engineer, I was a public relations professional), goals, life stories, and interests in the way that men do when finding kindred spirits.
As the conversation swung back to professions, he asked about current clients after telling me about some of his ongoing work. I explained that I was in the bar to meet with one of my clients, and my jotting of notes was more for pleasure than work.
"Oh. You're a writer, then?" His tone was complimentary as he continued, "My son is in school studying to be a writer. " The pride in his voice was well-earned, I imagined.
It is always a source of fascination for me when I hear about people going to school to learn to be a writer. In some ways, it makes sense, as peer review and respectful critiques are excellent methods to sharpen one's writing. Journalism majors have a whole host of professional ethics questions to cover that can only be addressed in a classroom environment. And, technical writing is a field that deserves special attention, with all of its attendant risks and requirements. So, I asked what his son was looking to do as a writer.
"He's studying creative writing," beamed this proud Kansas papa.
I nodded, striving to keep my thoughts from escaping. My filter is a bit faulty sometimes, and I had no wish of offending this kind gent. Then, he went and blew that all to hell.
"So, do you have any suggestions for him?"
Oh boy.This will not end well, thought I.
After all, I am from the school of thought that says great (fiction) writers are people who have lived other lives. From Hemingway to Conrad, Dostoevsky to Martel, the strongest writers come from disparate backgrounds wherein classical (read: MFAs) education played little role. Wander the NY Times Bestseller lists and often enough, the books and stories selling in the hundreds of thousands are written by men and women who had entirely separate careers before submitting a single story.
There are too many possible reasons to conjecture upon. From the realism that only life experience can grant in developing plausible characters, to the deep background necessary to understanding potential plot elements (think Grisham and his legal thrillers), to even the lessons in love that only those who experience or witness workplace romances can achieve, living is the most important thing any aspiring writer can do.
I explained all of this to my older friend, and urged him to suggest to his son a separate calling in life. Or at least, an education that required educating, rather than an education that required refining. A great writer is necessarily like a great artist. While others may inspire, contribute, and offer encouragement or feedback, the true writer simply writes from a well of creativity and experience. When this is not so, the written word is flat, stale, or, that worst of all worlds for a creative writer, unbelievable.
As we parted, he shook my hand and asked about my own creative work. Would it someday be published?
I looked him squarely in the eye and said, "I've got a little more living to do."
