LOOK FOR THE GOLD
(How about a big Storytellers welcome for Robert Jones - he’s agreed to do occasional fill-in essays - and to catch a few of those 31st dates that we ignore so well, and so thoroughly. Welcome aboard, Bob)
by R. C. Jones
Rewards come in many forms. One of the most commonly recognized rewards for writing is probably financial, but there are others that can be immeasurably meaningful. Some who write have received not only financial rewards but also literary awards to which they attach special importance.
The field of sports has many nonfinancial rewards, often in the form of trophies for amateurs. In high school and college sports, school sweaters are also used as rewards. When in college, I earned a sweater by manning a sweep (long oar) while crewing in a coxed eight racing shell (long, skinny boat). Crewing was not easy. It required seemingly endless hours of hard rowing and miles of running just to get into acceptable physical condition for racing and to be able to row as one and as hard as we could without making mistakes. The crew on my boat included eight galley slaves and a coxswain, who steered and beat time for our strokes on the shell with rudder toggles. I think his name was Buddy Rich.
While our crew was still in a learning rut of rowing in a relatively clumsy and uncoordinated manner, chopping away at the water with our sweeps and sending splats of icy spring water in all directions, we somehow happened to time one stroke perfectly. Instead of responding with an expected jerk, the shell seemed to lift out of the water and glide through the air for a magical moment. During that moment, what began with an application of all-out brute force necessary to pull a sweep through a propelling arc ended in a soaring flight of graceful perfection. All thoughts of aches and pains in muscles and joints and of burning in throats and lungs disappeared. Replacing them was a fanatical desire to repeat that perfect pull and to experience that glorious glide again.
The sweater issued to me as my reward for all the intense work and pain while rowing arrived in a box. I opened it, looked at the contents, closed the box, and placed it upon a closet shelf, where it still rests. I can’t remember exactly what the
sweater even looks like, but I can still vividly remember that first perfect glide. I can still feel it.
The foregoing does not relate directly to rewards for writing, but I include it as an example of a meaningful and long-lasting nonfinancial reward.
Charles Ferry, an author of fine books for young adults, has been nonfinancially rewarded many times. His books include characters ranging from young flight crews facing the challenges of war, to young persons in love, and to even younger persons facing the terrors of terminal illness. Having become an authority on alcoholism the hard way, Charles has written books that reveal hazards awaiting those who drink irresponsibly. He has also developed eight-step programs that can be applied to help alcohol and drug addicts and those contemplating suicide.
Charles has received financial and literary awards for his books, and he’s justifiably proud of that. What brings a special look to his eyes, however, is when he tells me about some youngster who, after having read one of his books or having attended one of his lectures, tells him that, because of what he wrote or said, he or she will never drink or take illegal drugs. As Charles puts it, “That’s pure gold.”
I, myself, have put together quite a few words that have been published in technical manuals of a major computer company and more that have been published in newspapers that have lined the bottoms of many important birdcages. There are also reams of paper bearing my words securely tucked away in dark recesses of patent offices throughout the world. I received financial rewards for all of this, but I can’t remember all the details of what I wrote or the amount of my financial rewards.
The reward that I can remember in great detail was nonfinancial. It came from a legal secretary. I had written a newspaper column about the relationship between a horse and its master. Since she owned a horse that I knew she loved, I gave the secretary a copy of the column. She had no idea who had written it, and I thought I could get an unbiased opinion from her. A few days later, I asked if
she had read it. She said that she had been so moved by it that she had cried. I was so moved by her response that I almost did too. That was pure gold.
The road to success for a writer might be long and the financial rewards sparse, but look elsewhere for other rewards to see you through to better times. Elsewhere is where you can find supporting, nonfinancial rewards to sustain your drive and where you can sometimes find pure gold.
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Comments
Wonderful debut. Leave it to Mr. Jones to hone in on an aspect of writing glibly passed over by most practitioners. Yet he is right. It is a thrill we all experience.
Writing is a lonely sport, but as you so aptly remind us, the true reward is that glistening moment when we connect with an audience, a single person who gives us feedback and anoints us as a writer of substance. Like the hull of your shell skimming the water, it is an unimaginable, irrepressible moment of joy. It is validation. Being professionals though, we hide it, lest dear reader think us vain and self centered.
Ah, my friend, it is good to have you on board to share your wit, wisdom, and provocative insight.
Frank
I know that feeling too. My first novel, “This is My Blood,” brought a fellow sailor to tears…and I always feel odd mentioning it … but it happened. Sort of like when I did a reading at a convention and one of the ladies came up and told me she had to go smoke a cigarette afterward…:)
D
Lawsy, I knew you’d weigh in with something unique, Amalgam. (For those who wish an inside handle for the sterling Mr. Jones, he has been dubbed Amalgam Archimedes Jones III for reasons that would require a column to explain.) This is sweet. Life’s true rewards are always hard to define, but you’ve just done it. Everything meaningful for me in life has been something too purely transcendent to capture in mere words, too high up in the echelon of barely possible human experience to be described. I live soley for those rare moments — or, if you’re lucky, ongoing moments captured in daily rituals or a relationship. They are worth everything else. In terms of knowledge, of feeling, of experiencing beauty and love and peace, they make it all worthwhile. Only a fool chases those straight-up financial rewards for their own sake. There has to be something more or you’ve wasted your dance upon the stage. Thanks, Amalgam. The depth of your soul is showing my humble friend, and I, as always, am humbled by it.
– Sully (Thomas Sullivan)