Being A Writer Isn’t All Beer And Skittles
I’m working on the assumption that there are plenty of people out there who would like to be published writers. Do you dream of that moment when you get your first novel published? The delirious joy of seeing a book with YOUR name on it in your local bookstore? The first magnificent reviews – “A writer of enormous talent has emerged…”? Being asked to a literary conference for a panel meeting with John Marsden and Melina Marchetta?
Ah, yes. Heady stuff.
But a word of warning. Sometimes it can be positively humiliating to be a writer.
A good number of years ago, I went to a festival. Amongst the company of writers were Morris Gleitzman and Markus Zusak, fabulous writers both. It was clear I had arrived as a writer if I was in such august company.
My first session was in a large tent on the school grounds and it was packed to the rafters [if tents have rafters – which they don’t]. There was an excited buzz around the tent as I made my way to the podium and started my staggeringly witty, clever and brilliantly informative talk: “Good morning, my name is Barry Jonsberg and I am delighted…’ [a stunning start, I’m sure you will agree]but then noticed eighty percent of the audience leaving. Now, even by my own high standards, this was quite remarkable. Ten seconds and people are nearly being trampled in the mass exodus? “Sorry,” said one teacher as he passed. “We thought you were Morris Gleitzman.”
Now, I have placed a picture of Morris here, so you can see where the confusion arose. Do I look anything like Morris? Were we separated at birth? I don’t think so.
Anyway, I continued my talk to the remaining ten people [who almost certainly wanted to see Morris but couldn’t be bothered to move] whilst hearing roars of laughter from the adjoining tent where Morris, presumably, was inviting everyone to laugh at me. Or he could simply have been brilliant, witty and engaging about his own writing…
Later, I sat between Morris and Markus for a book signing. The queue of kids for Morris possibly exceeded the length of the Great Wall of China. The queue for Markus almost matched it. My queue was… well, what is the length of a queue with no people in it? Zero? Occasionally, a small child queuing for Morris would break out of the line and ask me to sign the paper bag containing his/her copy of one of Morris’s books. The paper bag! So I signed it “Morris Gleitzman sucks.”
I apologise, Morris. Humbly.
Now, other writers have had similar experiences. For an excruciatingly funny Youtube song by the American writer Parnell Hall, click here:
