David S. Rosenberg

For nearly twenty years I labored in cubical city as a technical writer, developing procedures, manual changes, and detailed engineering reports. In this sterile world, devoid of prepositions, pronouns, adjectives, and adverbs, writers follow approved style manuals that squelch creativity. Yet the creative soul, backed into the smallest corner of my brain, never vanished. Stored behind a myriad of duties and diversions, it lay dormant and forgotten except when my young children needed a bedtime story. When I entered their fantasy world; rusty brain box gears turned and short stories emerged for their amusement.

Later in life when time and circumstance permitted, the creative soul fought its way out of the corner and I tried writing my first book. With great pride and satisfaction I printed a one hundred thousand word novel. I mailed it to an agent. At that time, I really believed that fifty agents in the literary world hungered for my book, that they'd gladly represent me, and that the mailman would soon deliver substantial and frequent royalty checks. To my surprise the response came sooner than expected. I received my first rejection letter, a returned manuscript, and a bitter reality pill that I reluctantly swallowed.

Undaunted, the studying began. I soon learned that past success as a technical writer meant nothing. After reading books on character and plot development, dialogue, and drama, I understood why the agent rejected my pitiful and inadequate manuscript. Now, eight years after my traumatic awakening, I look back at the first effort. Years ago, I once read in an Isaac Asimov book, that given an infinite time period, the work of a million crazy monkeys pounding on keyboards would eventually write everything that could be written. (Discovering and editing useful material is another issue.) Now I recognize that during my first creative writing attempt I was only one door down the hall from that pool of insane monkeys.

After seven years and the production of five novels, I've expanded the vision of the great monkey pit. I learned that thousands of others escaped the chaotic world of banana eaters and sticky keyboards with me and that many writers are on a journey leading to the summit of Mt. J. K. Rowling. Sadly we tread on a path littered with the dry and broken bones of authors who tried and failed. I asked myself two questions: Why did so many authors perish? How can I avoid the same fate?

After considerable head banging on the problem, it became clear. Writers gain acceptance when they become impassioned, learn writing craft, study the fine attributes of successful authors and use them as mentors, and link arms with new authors in a spirit of mutual cooperation. While adopting these items does not guarantee success, they do reduce the probability of failure.

Why do I love to write? Simple—I enjoy the power it gives me. With creative writing I am the god of my creation. I decide the borders of universe and slip forward or backwards in time. I craft creatures and characters and I conjure circumstances and calamities. I am a movie director, producing scenes, setting the lighting, tone, and mood. I am all of the actors—my skill, evokes emotions, titillates the senses, and my voices potentially utter world-changing events. With all this power at my disposal, I recognize my responsibility. I am a mere servant to the ultimate judge of my creative effort—the reader.