Kindly invited by Mr. Timothy Flanders, I have been asked to write about the writer’s labors. The very word labors is a useful reminder of the famous Labors of Hercules. Sometimes, a writer’s difficulties and challenges transform his work into a long succession of challenges—not merely twelve, but perhaps dozens, hundreds, or even thousands. Most of these remain hidden from the scrutinizing eyes of readers. That is why I consider this invitation a good opportunity to speak openly about such labors. In doing so, both readers and aspiring writers may receive clues and details that are not easily accessible.
Personally, I consider being a writer less a profession than a vocation. It is an unseen calling, an urging of mysterious origin, an inner impulse that sometimes becomes imperative. For this reason, I believe that one probable sign of a writer’s vocation is precocity. As in chess, those who will one day become masters of words often feel compelled to write from an early age. Naturally, their creations—whether short stories, novellas, novels, poems, or essays—cannot possess the depth, tone, and weight of texts written by adults. Yet they begin very early to search for their own voice by scratching words onto paper. They are Inklings.
But why do I say that being a writer is less a profession than a vocation? Because ordinary professions can be taught; writing cannot. I am sure many people today will tell us that they have “learned” how to write. The creative-writing courses offered by some universities seem to prove that this is so. Yet I dare to say that such courses are useful only to those who are already born writers. Some of the others may eventually become “engineers” of words, but not writers in the true sense.
The explanation is simple. Words constitute only the garment that clothes the core of a text. Yet that core—the real heart of the matter—is not something that can be learned, studied, or acquired. It is, in fact, identical with the writer’s heart, with the deepest part of his life. The act of expressing this core outwardly is done naturally, without courses, without teachers, and without witnesses. Thus style is born—the writer’s personal voice. Style is to a writer what the voice of Luciano Pavarotti, Pietro Spagnoli, or Patricia Petibon is to a singer: the unique quality bestowed upon those gifted with such a talent. Of course, a gift must be exercised, refined, and patiently cultivated. This is what creative-writing courses can do for those who are born writers. What they cannot do is give someone the gift of writing itself.
Once discovered and embraced, this gift seeks to manifest itself in countless ways. From an early age, those who possess it scribble on paper, trying to compose poems, novellas, perhaps even novels. They are also interested in other writers and their works. They read fiction with great pleasure, but also encyclopedic works, monographs, and studies on a variety of subjects. Their homes tend to become—if they are not already, thanks to the care of parents and grandparents—veritable libraries.
Upon reaching adulthood, they will inevitably make their debut. How many days and nights will they spend anxiously awaiting replies from editors to whom they have sent their first manuscripts? Sometimes these first publications appear in university magazines—as was the case with me. Then the number of publications increases, along with the number of articles, stories, and poems submitted. Naturally, the first book follows, and then others. Yet adulthood also brings troubles and the concerns of a world that is not especially accommodating to what we might call “artistic vocations.”
After publishing my first hundred articles—on subjects ranging from philosophy and theology to history and literature—I had never been paid a single cent. When I was offered a permanent column at one of Romania’s most important literary magazines, Adevărul Literar și Artistic (The Literary & Artistic Truth), and was paid for each article, I thought I was dreaming. Yet this was an exception. Most of the books and articles I published in the country of my birth were unpaid labor. Probably you will find this inconceivable. In a post-Communist country, however, it was—and remains—the rule.
In the United States and England, where I made my English-language debut exactly twenty years ago thanks to the late Stratford Caldecott, editor of Second Spring journal,matters are more complex. Here, too, many writers receive nothing for their work. Some publications simply cannot afford to pay occasional contributors. Others, though fewer in number, pay for each article. To have an article accepted, published, and paid for is a remarkable achievement. The number of people competing for such opportunities is far greater than the financial resources available to most publications. Fierce competition has created a difficult situation for those who have already made writing their profession.
The inboxes of magazines and journals are full of messages from aspiring writers. Many of them will never be read. Others, though read, will never receive a reply. Patience is one of the most valuable virtues a writer can possess. Yet once the first articles are published, the writer’s labors do not end. They have only begun. This is especially true for writers whose livelihood depends entirely upon publication. Not only their own lives, but also the lives of their wives and children are directly affected by whether their articles are accepted. This aspect of a writer’s life deserves particular attention.
There are two especially terrible situations that the professional writer must face. The first concerns feedback from editors. If editors do not inform a writer whether an article has been accepted or rejected, he cannot know whether he is free to submit it elsewhere. Editorial silence, combined with the many hours invested in articles left indefinitely “pending,” is a severe trial. The only solution is to write even more articles and submit them to even more publications, hoping that at least some will be accepted. But how much can an active writer produce? Personally, I have sometimes written twelve articles in a month, and on rare occasions even fifteen. My average is about ten articles per month—roughly one every three days. If only seven of them are accepted, I can survive. If only five are published, life becomes instantly very difficult. Faced with such a test, most people give up and seek more productive employment. The stubborn ones suffer in silence.
They know perfectly well that there is nothing they can do to persuade an editor to publish them. And would such persuasion even be ethical? After all, it is the editor’s responsibility to judge the quality of an article. I have never questioned the legitimacy of this difficult task. A writer cannot compel anyone to believe—other than through its writings—that his articles are good, let alone indispensable. He must remain silent and continue working, unknown to all and tormented by doubts.
At the same time, modern publications no longer rely, as they once did, on a fixed group of permanent writers. Certainly, there are stars—authors whose work is published immediately because of their fame—but attaining such a status is more difficult than obtaining a permanent academic tenure. By publishing a large number of contributors, magazines have unfortunately come to treat occasional freelancers as disposable assets. A freelance writer can be discarded at any moment. Sometimes editors simply stop replying.
This is the second terrible trial that writers must endure. Nothing is more painful than discovering that, after several accepted and published articles, your messages suddenly go unanswered. I have experienced this several times with important publications, including Catholic journals and magazines. In one case, an article that had been published was never paid for, despite a prior agreement with the editor.
The storm unleashed by such situations is extraordinary. It is then that the writer learns the hardest lesson of all: he is dispensable. The impression created is that his work is unimportant, that no one truly needs him. Such thoughts can destroy a person. Without a courageous wife and our children, I would not have endured them.
“Am I really a writer?” “Do I write poorly?” “Have I somehow been labeled in a way that makes me unacceptable to the magazine, newsletter, or journal X?” These are only a few of the questions that begin to haunt you when you are tested in this way. The reasons editors cease responding will often remain forever unknown.
At other times, publications that once supported you are forced to discontinue your articles, not because they have excluded you for a reason or other, but because they are in crisis. Financial losses in particular have destroyed publications with which I collaborated, resulting in the instant decreasing of my sources of income. Unless you are a well-connected journalist who supplies news and commentary of broad public interest, finding replacement publications is extremely difficult. This brings us to another important point: the writer of ideas—or of fiction and poetry—enjoys none of the privileges available to professional journalists.
In the both secular and Catholic world, journalists are among the few who receive salaries for their work. For writers, this is almost unheard of. Their income consists solely of the amount of fees paid for each individual piece of work. Without pensions, health insurance, privileges, or protections, the writer resembles a castaway surveying the horizon in search of a saving shore. There is no need for me to tell you how difficult such a situation can be. You look around and begin to believe that rescue will never come. Then you drag yourself back to your desk, like an outcast returning to a barrel containing the last drops of water keeping him alive. Seated once more at the table of trials, you write another article, continue to read dozens of books and articles written by others, and allow ideas to grow and mature like bread rising in an oven.
You begin again: more emails, more submissions, more publications contacted—most without effect. Sometimes you can send five, nine, or ten articles to the same publication without receiving a single reply. What is the limit? The limit is the size of your patience.
Some writers have placed their hopes in platforms such as Substack. I am among them. Yet after publishing two hundred articles, I came to understand the nature of the illusion. The number of loyal readers you attract depends directly on the reputation you possessed before launching your newsletter. That is your “capital.” If you are not already well known, the audience that follows you will be too small to provide financial security. Others, in search of resources, succumb to a more dangerous temptation: politics.
Whether secular or ecclesiastical, politics—with its scandals and crises—is highly productive. An article on a political topic has a greater chance of being discovered in the vast jungle of the internet because of the enormous number of people interested in such subjects. Do not misunderstand me: political topics can sometimes be worthy of attention. But making politics the focus of one’s writing is a self-destructive tendency that has often led to disaster for those writers who behave almost like party members or supporters of Senator X and President Y. Almost everyone I’ve known—and there have been quite a few!—who has done this has become a sterile opportunist.
What is even worse is that the same thing can happen to those Catholic writers who discuss almost nothing but the Pope: they do not even mention God as often in their writings. This, too, is a form of “hyper-papalism” of which many are probably not even aware. Furthermore, it is clear that they risk betraying the vocation served by brilliant Catholic writers such as Saints Augustine, Francis de Sales, John Henry Newman, and John Bosco. For these brilliant Catholic authors, absolute primacy belonged neither to the Pope nor to the cardinals and bishops, but to the teaching of the Christian Faith. It was our King and Lord, Jesus Christ, they defended and conveyed through their writings. These were by no means articles on church politics, in which endless and often harmful discussions about cases of corruption and abuse by the hierarchy are almost the sole subject considered important.
Perhaps we should, at least occasionally, remember that for many centuries prior, most Christians did not even know who the pope was, or that the first encyclical was published by a pontiff only in the 18th century. Popes come and go, just like all people, but Christian teachings are eternal, transmitted unceasingly by the Church’s Great Tradition under the guidance of the Holy Spirit. Everyone has a duty before God and his own conscience to know and embrace the revealed Truth. To acquire this, the monumental Roman Catechism (1566) is sufficient. You don’t have to be St. Thomas Aquinas to learn the Church’s timeless teaching correctly. And if the hierarchy does not support the faithful in this regard, Christians must follow their conscience, refusing any complicity in sin or in ambiguous or even heretical teachings. Isn’t that crystal clear and simple?
Returning, then, to the writer’s work, these are some of the external problems—the Herculean labors—with which he must contend. I do not claim they are the only ones. The management of texts is itself another serious challenge. My notebooks and computer files are filled with article titles, magazine names, calendars, and lists marked “published” and “unpublished.” Another list tracks “paid” and “unpaid” articles. Other folders contain works in progress, organized according to major fields of investigation—in my case theology, philosophy, literature, poetry, history of religions, books, movies, cartoons, games, TV shows, and history. The list of subjects and sub-fields is far too extensive to recount here. From a distance, all of this may appear orderly and simple. Yet when hundreds of articles are involved, everything begins to resemble a jungle in which one can easily lose his way. But is not the writer, after all, called to bring a little light into the jungle of confusion that characterizes a world in crisis?
Photo by Patrick Fore on Unsplash