Let Readers Desire, Not Shag, You -- Reb MacRath

The less readers know about writers, in general, the better. They don't want to know that some common Joe or Jill transformed their unremarkable life into remarkable fiction. A myth is as good as a mile to most minds. Drop your guard and down you go; for suddenly, alackaday, the bloom is off the Muse.

The writers of the books we read should be part showmen, part shamans, part riddles wrapped in rich enigmas. The more unknowable they seem, the more we feel we know them. Don't let them let us know, we pray, that they're financial cretins, boozy woozies, crybabies, lousy lays or addled diaper-changers with baby poop on their pinkies. Let them give us commanding personas we're never quite able to 'get'.

Old friends and family members love us and forgive our faults. But they're hard put to see our work as they would a total unknown's. How can anything great come from someone they've seen in moments they'd rather forget? Or how can strangers on a plane read anything by anyone who hiccoughed too loudly or raced to the loo?

After Death's a different matter. The more tortured or lonesome a poor bastard's life, the more peace of mind it will bring to the crowds: once again tragic proof that the high price of art isn't worth it.

In the meantime, though, what are writers to do? Let's conclude with some modest proposals:

1) Accept two basic facts of life: we're lucky to have a small circle of friends who accept us as people and writers. And we're blessed if a circle of writers relate to our work though it's different from theirs. 

2) Understand: outside these circles, in the great ocean of readers, too close familiarity will breed neglect if not contempt. And loyal fans may feel let down, possibly even betrayed.

3) We need to stop assuming that readers really want to know every little thing we think or do. And we should give them what they want: the expression of power in motion, no matter how choppy the waters.

4) Let us also watch and learn from those shining wonders  who have their shit together. Without even trying they blow us away with the purity of their personas--never confessing their most hapless scenes, their most pathetic worries, their blemishes or IBS.

Fact: we'll never be Real Writers to most of the people we meet. And we'll disappoint, in person, most of those who love our work.

I never met either of these long-gone superstars:

Ira Levin

                                                                 Lawrence Sanders




And yet, as a reader, I know them. They were tough, sophisticated pros in love with bringing home the bacon to their readers' tables over and over again. What else, really, need we know?

Thanks for the lesson, gentlemen: To give readers what they want, we must put on cool dancing shoes,,,and hide those feet of you-know-what,