Snow shoveling brought me to my senses. That’s as plain as I can state my circumstances as I sit in front of my iMac, typing away, velvet ebony surrounding the windows of my studio, a Norwester’ whipping snow into unseen dervishes across our invisible hayfield.
For twenty-three years, I’ve been pursuing my muse. It started with spinal fusion surgery in September of 1990. My wife, a fine artist in her own right, urged me to use my recovery time after my week-long hospital stay, to cobble together the novel I’d always dreamed of writing. And so, I did. That book, The Legacy, took ten years to find a publisher and was born into the world in October of 2000. Since that fateful exercise, I’ve gone on to write nine books in all, some I’m proud of beyond measure, some I’d rather not claim. But not a one of those efforts had the support of an agent or a mainstream publisher. They have all been self-published. And therein lies the reason I find myself awake at four in the morning.
It’s not like I haven’t tried. Early on, I queried literary agents and publishers across the United States and Canada hoping and praying that one of my projects would spark an interest in the cultural doorkeepers that control the printing presses. Didn’t happen. I came close with The Legacy. Closer yet with Pigs. But my best work, the work I am most proud of, never generated any enthusiasm from the powers that be. Undaunted, fueled by ego or hubris, and propelled into my writing studio each morning by a rare combination of ambition and OCD, I typed away, spinning my yarns across the decades. To facilitate my tall tales being read, I founded a small press of my own and began to release books to bookstores and over the Internet. Folks seemed to like my work. I thought that, with vocal appreciation from fans and a little luck, my stories would spark interest in the larger world and my writing would find a home with a “real” publisher. Didn’t happen.
Debts mounted. A paltry attempt at financial rescue through Kickstarter was a bust. I managed to scrape together enough money to try one last time. Laman’s River came out a year ago. My most “commercial” effort and the slimmest of my novels never moved the needle on the success dial. Yet, I kept at it. Words poured out of my brain, through my fingers, and propelled the keyboard. Sukulaiset, my biggest challenge as a writer, emerged from piles and piles of research. I was on a mission with this book, a mission to craft a stunning and evocative story of love, loss, and the Holocaust that would solidify my reputation as a thoughtful and intelligent writer. But that didn’t happen. Some who pre-read the book, like my friends Randy in Grand Rapids and Alexis here in Duluth, had high praise for the effort. My wife thinks Sukulaiset is the best writing I’ve ever done. Others expressed less enthusiasm for the book’s plot and characters. The feedback I received was a mixed bag but the overall impact was devastating. It caused me to seriously doubt the path I’d stubbornly chosen.
Back to the snow shoveling and my eureka! moment. March has brought a ton of snow to our neck of the woods. It won’t likely be a record snow year. Duluth averages, according to the Internet source I checked, about 86 inches of snow a year. Hardly competition for Houghton-Hancock, or Bridger Bowl, or Killington, Vermont. A recent article in the Duluth News Tribune placed our snowfall to date at 75 inches. Ahead of last year and many recent years but still below our annual average. But we have had, in the past three weeks, a late awakening of winter. New snow has been accumulating on the roof of my house along nooks and crannies where, if undisturbed, it will form ice. Which will in turn form ice dams. Which in turn, will cause the roof to leak. So yesterday, I crashed my Pacifica through accumulated drifts that had reclaimed our road and driveway, spun my tires, and made it home before dark intent on shoveling the roof. I bundled up in my insulated Carhartt bibs and coat, tugged on an old orange stocking hat and matching gloves, and trudged outside.
The view from the roof of our house was astounding. The yellow globe of the sun stood above the leafless aspen and maple forest defining the western edge of our pasture. Wisps of cloud danced to a fresh Manitoban wind across the blue vaulted sky. The snow I was set to move was a mixture of light fluff, hard corn, and solid ice. The ice proved impassable and the snow was thigh deep. I was soon sweating inside my bibs. At fifty-eight, I know the statistics. I stopped to catch my breath and let my pounding heart rest. The weight of the snow tested my left shoulder where Doc Klassen stitched me back together. The shoulder’s not perfect. But it works. It stood the test. And as I shoved shovel after shovel of snow over the frozen gutter and onto the ground, I came to a decision.
Take some time off. Give this self-publishing thing a rest.
I am quite certain that creative types share the same demons, the same fears. One of those fears is that, if we stop what we’re doing, whether it’s painting or sculpture or writing, we’re toast. The fickle muse that propels us will vanish like the last breath from a gasping trout in a creel. And we will never be able to start the engine of creativity again. But as I pushed snow over the edge of the roof into the thin, cold air of the Cloquet River Valley, I came to the conclusion that I must take that risk. For me. For my sanity. For my wife and the son who remains at home. The fear, that if I stop promoting and selling my work at festivals and events, my name will be forgotten by those who’ve read and enjoyed my writing, is an irrational one. It is not founded on common sense or reality. That’s the clarity that came to me yesterday as I stood on the roof of my house watching the black water of the Cloquet push against the weight of a Canadian wind.
And so, I have cancelled all my appearances for the summer as well as the June release of Sukulaiset: The Kindred. My future as a teller of tall tales is, at this moment, uncertain. I do plan to re-format some of my older novels as eBooks over the upcoming year so that they’re available to folks who haven’t read them. Beyond that, I hope to find the time and the inclination to slip on my waders and wet a line in one of those little trout streams along the North Shore I used to write about. Maybe take a trip out west to visit my second son and his girlfriend at their new home, with a stop at Yellowstone and the Custer Battlefield as well. And maybe float in a canoe on the Cloquet in search of peace, contentment, and a walleye or two.
Stay tuned for the next chapter.
Peace.
Mark
