Frölich Geburtstag

No writer really works in isolation.  Although my favorite time of writing falls daily between 3:30 and 5:00 a.m., I am not alone.  In my head are the many other writers I’ve read, and those from whom I’ve learned my penurious craft.  Today marks the birthday of Franz Kafka, one of my literary heroes.

My experience of trying to find publishers has been a kafkaesque trial from time to time.  I learned to write by reading those who’ve written before—Poe, Melville, Austin, Kafka.  Their rich writing, it seems, had a place in a past that no longer exists.

Something few editors appreciate is the metaphorical and ironic style of writing I employ.  Anyone who reads Moby-Dick and comes away thinking it is a novel about whaling has no subtlety whatsoever.  To write about life’s great questions, you need a vehicle.  Melville chose a whale, and Kafka chose a bug.  Today, unless your style is flashy and full of sparkly panache, you’ll remain self-published.

I know some editors personally.  Individually they seem like decent people.  Give them the power to declare the death-sentence on your writing, however, and they become merciless demigods.  Apart from the few writers who’ve had the connections to make their art known, most of us scribble away in obscurity.

Kafka did not live long enough to grace the world with the kind of output from which it clearly would’ve benefitted.  The Existentialist writers have always been among my favorites, for their experience is parsimonious.  Life does not make sense.  Through their writings I hear their wisdom echoing from the grave.  Blessed were the publishers who recognized substance when it came across their desks.

The world in which we find ourselves eschews the writing of those with education at the feet of solid teachers.  The hours we’ve spent curled up adoringly at the feet of Poe, or Hawthorne, or Brontë have been the kindest lessons life could offer.  When class is over, and publishing becomes a business rather than a cultural mainstay, we will all come back to Kafka with wonder in our eyes.