Imprimatur

I remember reading, a long time ago, the biography of Thomas Merton.  Merton was a Trappist monk who grew very fond on Buddhism and eventually became famous in his own lifetime.  His Seven Story Mountain is a kind of classic.

Merton didn’t grow up Catholic, and as he narrates his story he tells of finding a book with an imprimatur.  He was so angry he wanted to throw the book out of the window.  What right did a group, even so large a group as the Catholic Church, have to declare a book fit for print?  It riles the creative sensibilities.  Of course, he went on to become a monk.

The concept of imprimatur is one that all writers face.  Publishers, Catholic, Protestant, Jewish, or any kind of religion or secular, hold the imprimatur.  There are the successful self-published of course.  I’ve read enough self-published books to see the value in what publishers offer.

Still, publishers get to decide what the world reads.  It’s a necessary evil, perhaps, but like a young Merton I react strongly to the idea of imprimatur.  Perhaps it’s because these days of internet noise make it hard to stand out.  Any Joe or Jane with a keyboard and web access is a writer.  Millions, probably billions of us.

I started writing before the internet was invented.  Problem was, I didn’t start trying to get published then.  By the time I finally screwed up the courage to send a story to a literary magazine, submissions were only accepted online.  I was now just one of the countless wannabes.

The imprimatur of the publisher is no guarantee of success, but it is a way of having someone at least try to get your name out there.  You can publish over a dozen stories and have no one recognize your name.  I read books all the time from authors I’d not previously heard of.

The difference: they have an imprimatur.  The publisher is the gatekeeper.  I’ve read enough early Stephen King to know that his protagonists tend to be authors.  They have success because he has had success.  The pope of writers.

I’m holding out on the self-publishing end of things, but I’m getting to the point where it’s starting to look attractive.  I’m a non-conformist, but I just don’t have the energy to promote myself and still write books and stories.

Perhaps it’s time to enter on my knees and kiss that episcopal ring.  Maybe with a miracle my novel will finally be published.