The Autumn Writer
By Vaughn Roycroft | March 28, 2022 |
No, you’re not wrong—that title definitely seems off. We’re only a few weeks into spring, after all. I blame Bob Seger. Well, perhaps it’s more accurate to blame XM Radio’s 70s soft rock channel, The Bridge.
Regarding Seger, I was never the biggest fan of my fellow Michigander. Heck, until recently I was never any sort of fan of 70s soft rock. There’s a certain irony to my discovery of The Bridge, and finding that the songs featured there soothe me. It might be the simple balm of nostalgia. Or maybe it’s my punishment for making it to 60, that I’m actually appreciating a type of music that I so ardently disdained as a teenager. Whatever the reason for my new musical penchant, it led me to the epiphany that inspired the above title and this essay.
I had always considered Seger hits to be better suited to selling trucks than soothing anxiety, let alone inspiring introspection. That is until recently, when the song Night Moves came on. It was Seger’s first mega-hit—the song, and album, that launched him and his Silver Bullet Band into the national spotlight. I’d only ever heard it as a simple ditty about teenage sexual exploration—and it is mostly that (with a dash of 70s misogyny, to boot). But this time, for the first time, the fond reminiscence in the lyrics caught my ear. I perked up and tuned into Seger’s voice in a completely new way. When he sang of the “sweet summertime, summertime,” I understood it anew, as a phase of life. Then he mentions feeling the lightning, and I grasped how, when we’re young, things tend to strike us, electrify us—and not just sex. I felt the phrase: “waiting on the thunder” in a whole new way. When we’re struck like that, we long for it to resonate in our lives.
Then came the famous, almost-spoken bridge:
“I woke last night to the sound of thunder
How far off I sat and wondered?
Started hummin’ a song from 1962
Ain’t it funny how the night moves?
When you just don’t seem to have as much to lose
Strange how the night moves
With autumn closin’ in…”
And I thought, damn–yeah, ain’t it funny? I realized how the night moves for me now, how often I wake up thinking and remembering and wondering—so much more powerfully than I used to. On those nights I see it all: distant past, still so close; fleeting present; looming future.
Then and there, I perfectly saw my writing life in Seger’s lyrics—how electric the discoveries have been, how I’ve waited on the thunder; how I just don’t seem to have as much to lose. Indeed, I’ve reached a point in my life that, while humming a song from 1976, I can see just how strangely it all moves. With autumn closing in…
A Seasoned Writer
It’s not that I consider myself a novice, but even as I close in on twenty years of writing I’ve remained hesitant to claim any sort of expertise. I’ve finished a half-dozen manuscripts, but besides knowing there’s always much more to learn, I think my hesitance is born of the bottom line: “Still not published.” Even here on WU, I tread fairly cautiously. I’ve always been happy to share my experience, but who am I to assert or declare anything to my fellow writers?
My wife and I recently had dinner with one of her clients. This is someone I’ve been acquainted with for the better part of a decade, and we’ve occasionally seen each other socially over that time. Our dinner was the first time he actually had the chance to ask me about my writing. He was persistent and seemed genuinely interested, so I shared more than I typically do. At some point, after an explanation of Tolkien’s role in the origin of my story-world, he stopped me. “Let me get this straight,” he said. “You first envisioned doing this when you were eleven, you went back to it in your 40s, and now—at 60—you’re about to start publishing the damn thing? That’s remarkable.”
I hadn’t really thought of it that way. Like Seger, the client had provided me with a new perspective on my journey. Putting the two together has given me the wherewithal to declare myself a seasoned writer. It may be spring, but for what it’s worth, I am the autumn writer.
Assertions of the Newly Self-Ordained
Given my new perspective, I’m feeling newly entitled to make a few writerly assertions and declarations. Nothing too controversial, but I feel it’s time to make a start. I also still feel obligated to say that, yes, these are the mere opinions of a writer who has striven for a substantial period. Also, some of these might strike you as patently obvious, but for one reason or another, they’re tidbits for which I’ve grown or regained an appreciation. In other words, your mileage may vary.
Without further ado, here are a few springtime assertions from this autumn writer:
1—Write the books you want to read. Simple, right? I put this one at the top of the list mostly because I started out intending to do this very thing, and somewhere along the line I lost sight of it as my maxim. During the years of striving, there can be a powerful lure to make stories become what you perceive others want them to be. Resist it. Routinely remind yourself what you wanted to accomplish when you started, and keep yourself on the path toward it. You’ll thank me when autumn closes in.
2—Care less, write more. By care less, I mean about what anyone else thinks in regard to you and writing. Looking back I wish I could take most all of the hours I spent caring about what anyone thought or said or did about my work, or me as a writer, and just spent them writing. I can see now that the writing itself has always been the cure for so much of what has ailed me.
3—It truly is subjective! I’ve heard this a thousand times over the course of my journey, and oh how I wish I’d long ago found my way to really accepting it. When someone—doesn’t matter who—doesn’t like your work, or any aspect of it, all it means is that this one thing you’ve created does not match with their very subjective taste. Period.
4—Art and capitalism are the makings of a volatile and inconsistent mixture. Take it from a guy who spent twenty years in business and then almost twenty more as a creator: seeking to place monetary value on human creation is an extremely imperfect undertaking. It’s futile to imagine one without the other, and yet insisting that one should perfectly compliment or define the other is a toxic notion. Think about it—without the frenzied commercialism of Beatlemania we never would’ve gotten the artistic beauty of Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. But did the Beatles’ creative freedom ultimately lead us to the glut of 70s corporate rock? Without the success of Peter Jackson’s wonderful Lord of the Rings movies, would we have ended up with the abomination that is The Hobbit films trilogy? Examples abound. Bottom line, don’t invest an ounce of your soul in how well or poorly your creative work sells.
5—Seek feedback, but genuinely believe it’s ignorable. I heard this one a lot over the years, too. Oh how I wish there was a way to make sure every writer who hears it truly embraces it. If feedback doesn’t resonate, it’s not just a good idea to disregard it—you must jettison that shit. Get it off the boat or it’s going to start stinking. If it rots onboard, it could even make you sick, which might steer you off course. I spent way too many hours of my writing life thinking that there must be some value to dissenting critique. The opposite has been true. Yes, it can devalue your work. Worse, it can devalue your self-esteem.
6—It’s about YOU. This one makes a nice bookend to writing what you want to read. When autumn closes in, you come to appreciate that this journey is really about you—your accumulating experience, your growth, your wisdom. It’s an endless cycle, learning and growing and putting what’s gained back into the work. What comes of that externally is not for you. Worry about what you can control: the work itself. None of the rest matters.
Seasons Change and So Did I
It may be spring, but I’ve always been fond of autumn. Autumn is a time of reaping and stowing. It’s a time of settling in with what one’s gathered, which lends itself to sharing. For me, it feels natural to accept this change. I’m comfortable being the autumn writer. It really does feel like it’s time for me to share what I’ve gathered, starting with this post.
Considering that lightning first struck almost exactly fifty years ago, I find that I’m glad to have made it here, in spite of the relative lack of thunder. I’m happy that I’ll have an appreciation for the tidbits I’ve gathered when I share my books later this year. It allows me to stay focused and excited about continuing my work, to keep from being distracted by all of the non-writing necessities of publication.
Ain’t it funny?—when I do find myself sitting and wondering how far off the thunder is, I find I just don’t have as much to lose. As autumn closes in.
How about you, WU? Do you love or hate 70s soft rock? Are you okay with autumn, even this early in the spring? Care to share any of the tidbits you’ve gathered?
Vaughn Roycroft’s (he/him) teacher gave him a copy of The Hobbit in the 6th grade, sparking a lifelong passion for reading and history. After college, life intervened, and Vaughn spent twenty years building a successful business. During those years, he and his wife built a getaway cottage near their favorite shoreline, in a fashion that would make the elves of Rivendell proud. After many milestone achievements, and with the mantra ‘life’s too short,’ they left their hectic lives in the business world, moved to their little cottage, and Vaughn finally returned to writing. Now he spends his days striving to finish his epic fantasy series.
On 70s soft rock, I believe all music has some merit. If a song, no matter what genre, makes me feel something, I like it. I use music to help me write. I make tons of playlists, with a variety of music. If I need a sad sappy love song to write a scene, 70s soft rock is it. I mean Nazareth’s “Love hurts” is 70s soft rock. The ultimate break up song. Or post break up.
That’s a terrific gauge, Natalie. For any sort of art. What was interesting for me in the Seger case was hearing a song that had been so ubiquitous in my teens as if for the first time. Funny how the brain works, and how the night moves, I guess. Oh, and I always loved Nazareth. Thanks for reading and for weighing in.
We recently got a new vehicle that came with Sirius XM and now I can’t live without it. The thing I’ve found with The Bridge is that the songs always seem to play at a slightly slower pace. Maybe it’s just me. But it’s still on my speed dial. I also like the 70s on 7. I just heard Night Moves the other day. I’ve only come to appreciate his songs (coinciding with having XM now, I suppose). His fav song of mine that clearly resonates EVERY time is Against the Wind. And that’s how I feel about my writing career lol. And I’m ok with that. Good essay. T
Ha–that’s how we ended up with Sirius. Same, can’t live without it now. Listening to Against the Wind now. “Wish I didn’t know now what I didn’t know then.” Wow, you’re right, it’s one of his best. I’ll have to check out 70s on 7 (sometimes you need a “flip-to”).
Thanks for weighing in, Thea! Miss having your voice in my ear. Happy spring!
Thanks for this post. Very timely since, although I have published 5 books (and a sixth is on the way) I am now venturing into novels and as an “autumn writer” have to fight the feeling that it’s too late to try. Your words help me view this in a better way.
Ah, that’s the very best thing I could’ve heard, Nancy, thanks. Just goes to show, the apprehension never really leaves us. It always takes bravery to put ourselves out there. Being autumn writers assures us that it’s what we’re meant to do. Sending you assurance of the strength and courage that’s already inside of you. Onward!
Vaughn, I love this post so much. It resonated deeply with me—the song, the mood, the sense of time. Your writing sweeps me away here. I can’t imagine it would be the same with your books. That wisdom and grace are the weft of your writing.
On 70s rock, I spent decades pretending I didn’t like it, but I do. I also love…gasp…70s pop.
Hi Barbara, Your kind praise has made my day. It’s feels good knowing that I put in the work to set a solid foundation. You’ve always been such a role-model and an inspiration. It’s so cool to have your supportive reply because I think of you often, and especially as I compose my WU posts–this one being no exception.
Lol regarding 70s pop (Bay City Rollers, anyone? How can one resist?) Isn’t it funny about 70s rock? Looking back on those that I stuck up my nose over, versus the music I was actually buying and listening to at the time, I think I often got it backwards. But being able to see that now is just another lesson gained in autumn, I suppose. Can’t thank you enough for your support and inspiration.
I hope it was clear I meant “wouldn’t be the same” above. Autocorrect!
Ha–I read right over it as wouldn’t. Oh, the hubris, lol.
Thanks for making sure! Have a great week.
Brilliant. As a ’72 high school graduate, the music of my generation set the bar for future groups and soloists, which in the minds of many, have yet to meet the mark. I know the path you’ve trod. I recognize, sympathize, and burned the same bridges. It’s sad, really, that a writer does not learn these lessons until the autumn of their life. And yet, it wasn’t until recent years we were able to successfully circumvent a major publishing house and its mahogany row. Here’s to your your own Stairway to Heaven. It’s time.
Hey Pam–I agree, the music from the late sixties and early seventies definitely left those of us who came of age in the mid to late 70s feeling a bit shortchanged. Might be why so many of us jumped at the second British invasion (of punk and post-punk stuff). I suspect that much of that was due to the big bucks that those in the record industry were pursuing, but it also means that I overlooked the gems that did arise.
It is sort of sad to finally accept these lessons now, but I still feel blessed–by that and by our new abilities, publishing-wise. And what a perfect well-wish. Thank you! And Ramble On!
Vaughn, this was such a lovely read today after a tough personal night! I was just thinking about how I have picked up and put down the same story since I was 12, when my sister’s then-bf, an artist, illustrated it for me. I just turned 45 and was thinking: maybe it’s past time to let that story go. Maybe this is one of those “know when to quit” times? Which made me sad, but now I am thinking: it’s stuck with me this long, maybe that’s for a reason! As for 70’s rock, I have long loved music on a song by song basis and tie myself to neither band, nor singer nor decade nor genre. And music definitely helps me shape my stories, 110%, so I use whatever matches the mood of a scene or the life of a character.
Hi Lara – I’m glad to have provided the proper timing for you. Isn’t if funny, how we so often try to deny things that have been powerfully meaning for us for so long? I always felt exactly the same when I (often!) considered quitting–sad. Just didn’t seem right. I’m also glad you’re going to persevere (just going to go ahead and presume it’s inevitable, lol). You’re wise to take it by the song, as one should. I guess I just avoided the whole genre for so long, it’s all feeling new again. Another blessing of getting older, I suppose. Me too, regarding music and writing.
Here’s to staying true to youthful inspiration, and to perseverance. Thanks much for enhancing the conversation!
As another Autumn writer I really appreciate your insights, Vaughn. I, too, find it remarkable that I’m living my childhood dream. I do wish that the art and business side would meld better though. How I would love for my husband to be able to retire and do what he loves full-time. But as it is, I consider this writing life a pure gift and so I’m mindful that my stories are a gift too–to myself and to others (I’m paraphrasing Amy Tan). Thanks for a great essay. And those 70s songs–my husband serenaded me with them :)
Hi Vijaya — It’s almost like we have to pinch ourselves once in a while, isn’t it? I too appreciate my spouse’s support, and wish she could ease off and pursue her passions just as she’s so generously allowed me to do.
Here’s to recognizing and utilizing the wisdom we’ve earned as autumn closes in. Thank you!
Oh my. Needed this in the unpublished autumn of my writerly life—having lost my way in the sea of other writers’ critiques of what they think my writing should be… thank you.
Hi Deb — I’m delighted to have provided a timely reminder, and maybe a bit of fortitude for a fellow autumn writer.
Here’s to staying true to ourselves! Thanks much for letting me know.
Though I do better writing in silence, I do listen to music (and the Bridge) in the car. So I can definitely relate to how songs change and morph in meaning as we age. Books do the same, have you noticed? Anyway I really appreciate the reminders in this post and congratulate you on your perseverence. Pretty much nothing is ever accomplished without it, though those of us who have it usually leave it underappreciated.
Huzzah, another Bridge listener. Yes, I went through a binge of rereading books that I felt had a big impact on me in my youth, and there were a few of them I sort of wish I hadn’t looked back at, lol.
Here’s to persistence, and to its appreciation! Thanks much for enhancing the conversation, Carol.
70s soft rock–sigh–Brandy, You’re a Fine Girl! Haha–I take your post quite literally, Vaughn! Bravo!
Oh, don’t think I’m not going to blame you for this, Dee. I remember when I heard about you running with Brandy (metaphorically, of course), I thought, “Damn, that was a fine song. Tells such an intriguing story.” I’m thinking my penchant for the Bridge was, in part, due to your revelation. Thanks, Dee. Still looking forward to digging in! You’re right at the top of my TBR.
Vaughn, what a beautiful post. And a very timely one, too. Our writing backgrounds are very similar, albeit that you’re a few steps ahead of me in the game. I’m currently in the querying doldrums. I’m not the most thin-skinned person, nor do I suffer from any kind of impostor syndrome. Still, it’s hard to keep an open mind when you’re getting nothing but form rejections. So your “write the books you want to read” recommendation really hit home with me. Just last night, I re-read a few chapters of the manuscript I’m querying, and damn, it’s good. (That, of course, is an entirely subjective statement. Just as subjective, I might add, as rejections are). No matter if this book ever finds an agent or a publisher, I can rest assured that I’ve truly written what I want to read.
Oh, and I’m a big Bob Seger fan. His “Turn the Page” is still one of my favorite songs ever.
Hey LK — Hang in there! It’s so damn hard to ignore those rejections. And, yes, stay true to yourself. You have such a wonderful voice and such great storytelling instincts. Remember that you’ve put in the work–you’re a pro and no one can ever take that from you. Know that I’m rooting for you!
Regarding Turn the Page, whoa–that sax riff! It’s been such a balm rediscovering these songs. Thank you! Wishing you serenity and the very best with submissions.
A great, thoughtful post, Vaughn. But I have to say: the amount of 70s music on my main playlist would either make you cry, or make you laugh. I find it’s the music that resonates with me most, probably because it’s tied to my own coming of age. In defense of Bob Seger, I feel he summed up the writer’s challenge better than most: “What to leave in, what to leave out.”
As far as the autumn mindset, I hear ya. Actually, some health hiccups have forced me to consider the notion that I may have inadvertently moved on into winter, so I better get cracking on Keith’s Next Great Opus. Thanks for the reminder!
Hey Keith — Once the episode with Night Moves happened, I started listening to all of Seger’s work with my new ears on, and damn. The man has writing chops! He’s a storyteller, for sure, but he slips that sort of wisdom in so seamlessly. I remember my older sibs used to go and see him at the local clubs (he had a fairly long stint playing the local MI club circuit), and when Night Moves came out, most of us very wise sophomores thought of it as a sell-out album (he’d been thought of as a harder rocker prior to it). At least I’m finally wising up (in some ways, anyway).
I hear ya, regarding the impetus of the ticking clock. Wishing us both many healthy days of utilizing our hard-earned experience!. Thanks, Keith, as always, for your very kind support, and for your guiding inspiration.
The autumn writer…I’m there, living the autumn writing life, yet my creativity will never never proceed to winter, while never be frozen. And you have been so supportive. But Vaughn it’s a damn challenge when I’ve written three novels and none are published…that I enter contests and never win…that I take classes and get praise but somehow it hasn’t reached the general public that I can write, that I have talent. So I press on. The joy of writing has always been with me. I used to teach classes to young writers encouraging them to proceed, to not let rejection allow them to stop. So I can’t. As for music, there is so much that I love, classical and pop, jazz and just the top forty of my time period. I love Neil Young’s HARVEST MOON so much that I quote a few words in my novel, write about the musicality of the piece. Some authors actually list the songs they have played while writing. I can’t write when someone is singing words. Silence or just music will work. Thanks.
Hey Beth — You know, maybe–just maybe–writers like us, who’ve endured through so much rejection, with that powerful commitment to continue in spite of us, end up with the truest stories to share. Sort of like the lumps of coal that have endured years of pressure to become diamonds. Oh man, Harvest Moon is such a great, and enduring!, masterpiece. Great choice!
Thanks, Beth! Here’s to persevering and to diamonds, my friend. Wishing you bright and productive spring and summer days ahead.
This was such a perfect essay to start my week, thank you! I think I’ve been spending a lot of time lately with item 2 (care less, write more) and being *patient* with myself and with my characters. Not an easy task, often. Your list is a helpful reminder from the universe to keep listening.
I may have to check out The Bridge in the car…we have Classic Rewind programmed in, which is where I usually hear Seger (the Night Moves bridge is wonderful, so evocative). Of course, if you’re in the mood to revisit the second British invasion, I trust you’ve found First Wave? ;-)
Hey Alisha — Um, hello! Yes, of course I’ve preformed my duty as guy who went to college in the early eighties, and have First Wave in the #1 slot of my preselected channel buttons. ;) Also, have you relistened to songs like The Clash’s Know Your Rights lately? Yeah, no–it wasn’t just pounding chords for the mosh-pit and synth pop for the dancefloor.
Oh, I’m delighted that this piece is timely for you, and that you and others are finding my reminders heartening and fortifying. That was my #1 preselected hopeful outcome. Wishing you more patience, listening to the universe, and steady progress, my friend. Thanks much for letting me know.
Vaughn, how right you are to call yourself a seasoned writer. An unseasoned writer would not have been able to make those points or give such advice. Thank you for this generous post.
Autumn? How about the relentless approach of winter? I smell snow.* My autumn project has been hanging around for more than 40 years. I spent far too many of those years (besides bringing up a family, changing careers, and all the other usual diversions) spreading out my aspirations over every imaginable genre, though I did manage to get some poems and short fictions and essays published in respectable venues. But now (yes, it’s about time) I’ve settled down to working on my long narrative NF research-based piece enlivened by fictional techniques (thank you, WU) and taking breaks to create and submit the kinds of short pieces I most enjoy making (thank you again, WU). Goodbye outworn aspirations; hello real stuff.
As for music, I go back to vintage rock. And my XDH would not allow anything but classical music in the house, so I came late to the Beatles and 70s music. I realize I’m making this admission in public—but hey, if not now, when? Especially when “now” is getting shorter and shorter.
*Yes, snow has a distinctive smell. People who live in northern latitudes recognize it easily. Recent transplants don’t quite believe that we can forecast an approaching winter storm before the first flakes fall.
Hey Anna — I absolutely know the smell of snow. We northern kids have got to stick together, and utilize all the advantages our upbringings provided, right? I’m delighted to hear the positivity, the certitude, in your words here. Your passion for the project of your heart shines through, and it makes my heart glad. Hello real stuff, indeed!
Here’s to the smell of spring (at the moment), and to knowing that we have the wherewithal to endure–indeed to gather and stow, and share–through the snowstorms we smell on the horizon. I believe! Thank you for your always kind praise, and for enhancing the conversation here.
Such a beautiful, true, and moving post, Vaughn. Timely, too, as I’m definitely entering the fall stage of life. Thank you for sharing.
Hi Liz — Aw, hell no. All I sense when we’re together is “sweet summertime, summertime.” ;) In any season, I’m very grateful for your inspiration and support, my friend. Thank you!
Hi Vaughn. Your article is too good for me to not comment in detail. Both as another Writer Unboxed fan, and as a fellow Michigander, I have long admired your moxie and commitment to our craft.
1. “Write the books you want to read.” As a novelist, I find this a painful truth. Long ago, I chose to believe others: that what I liked to read would be far less publishable than genre fiction. So, I wrote three suspense novels. Much too late in the game, I now see that the advice was right, but wrong for me. But it should be added that you can’t write what you want to read: by the time you’re done, you don’t want to ever see it again.
2. “Care less, write more.” Yes and no. I don’t trust beta readers–there are just too many question marks. But I think hiring good editors and listening to them is fundamental to what we do. In the end, we alone must decide what criticism makes sense and what doesn’t. But having someone you don’t know read what you’ve written makes sense to me. As for writing more, I place the emphasis on trying to get better, not on ginning out more titles.
3. “It is truly subjective.” Other than being able to hear useful criticism, I agree completely. Not long ago, I was corresponding with a marketer, in hopes we might do business. She asked to see some of the book in question. She wrote back that she hoped I wouldn’t take it personally, but she couldn’t sell something she didn’t like. She only reads thrillers, so she wasn’t going to like my story. For that reason I had no reason to take offense, and took none.
4. “Don’t invest an ounce of your soul in how well or poorly your creative work sells.” This is good advice, especially now, when manipulation of social media is so important to sales. But there’s a hitch: unless you give your book away, the only way to be read is to sell books. At this point, I don’t care about money, but I still want to find readers. If I don’t make some effort to sell my stories, people will never know about what I’ve written.
5 and 6 take care of themselves.
Thanks again. As you see, you article has been very thought-provoking for me.
Hi Barry — Dang, it’s almost like my writing about autumn took our Michigan weather backward a few steps, isn’t it? Sorry about that. I’m delighted that the essay was thought-provoking, and I appreciate your refinements of my points. I agree that having someone–or a few someones–you know and trust read is essential. It takes time and work to find them, but they’re worth their weight in gold. I’ve finally found acceptance for the fact that only a small percentage of readers are even open to my genre, let alone that many who are fans are going to dislike what I’ve done. That’s a pretty small sliver, so I also appreciate your caveat about finding readers (as opposed to monetary gain).
Always wonderful to hear from you, Barry. Thanks for your kind praise, and for enhancing the conversation here today.
Vaughn, as a guy who went to many Grateful Dead concerts in the 70 (but also loved Thelonius Monk and Commander Cody and Joni Mitchell) and often left the Dead concerts with one eyeball rotating in one direction and the other eye turned inside out, I’m happy to know that I made it to autumn. I always love that emotional resonance of that passage in Night Moves.
Your writerly declarations and assertions (though polite you prefaces them as flexible) are well considered, and even wise, you wise guy. May your spring blossom and your autumn produce big harvests.
That’s supposed to be the “70s” but who’s counting?
Hey Tom — The high school buddy who introduced me to Commander Cody (as well as getting me to know and love Steely Dan, beyond the radio hits) is one of the smartest guys I’ve ever known–a real rocket scientist. Seriously, he makes his living calculating rocket and satellite trajectories. He also had quite the stack of great jazz LPs, though we spent most of our time together cruising in his ’68 Bonneville. Damn, that boat of a car had a phenomenal sound system. (And folks wonder about my tinnitus.)
Thanks for the writerly atta boy, and for being my writerly Commander Cody advocate. You’re an inspiration and wittier than a rocket scientist. Seriously.
My only rocket-scientry was lighting unsafe bottle rockets in suburban neighborhoods. Yeah, Commander Cody: he was a true piano-playing, cigar-chomping madman on stage, but he had a masters in painting and sculpture, and was an art teacher for a while.
Another yes: old Bonnevilles. My friend had a ’70 baby-blue convertible that was gigantic. However, I had a ’62 Caddy that was longer yet, so, bragging—or idiot—rights.
Speaking of bottle-rockets, the same rocket-science buddy and I spent one long evening trying to make a rocket using gunpowder from bottle-rockets and household objects and flammables (we were about 14, I was staying overnight and his parents were out partying–probably listening to Seger somewhere, lol). We were so disappointed when it just flared and burned without budging an inch. Made a nice bright fire, though. So we took heart, went in and ordered a pizza delivery on the absent parents’ tab, lol. I like to periodically remind him that his first rocket was a dud.
You’ve got me beat! Longest one I had was a ’68 Bel Air. Bench seat with three-on-the-tree; I used to put my arm around my sweetie, drink a beer, and still manage to shift as needed. So, speaking of idiot rights, lol. Here’s to those long cars and even longer nights.
An excellent post, as always Vaughn. And, a very timely one as well.
Seventies rock is the music I first heard from my older siblings, so it’s also the background sound of many of my earliest childhood memories. As such, I tend to enjoy most of it. Although, there are a few bands who can induce migraines if I hear even a riff or two of their better-known songs.
As someone who has loved books for as long as I can remember and wanted to write since junior high or high school, I’ve recently doubted if I can still call myself a writer at all. I’ve had a tough time doing any writing the past couple of years. And impostor syndrome has long been a battle for me.
Thank you for the reminder that my recent milestone birthday means I’m moving into my lifeline’s equivalent of my favorite season: Autumn.
Agriculturally, autumn is a time when we harvest what was sown. When we begin to prepare the fields left fallow for this season for next spring’s plantings. A time when the elders and ancestors perhaps speak more easily to us from across the veil.
Entering my autumn as a person and a writer perhaps means that I’m finally internalizing many of the hard-earned lessons from my younger days. Perhaps that will fuel a richer, more honest output in my work. And better allow me to both write about and live the values that I want to see in the world.
Hi Ruth! Your experience of knowing music through your older siblings matches mine. My brother was a real rocker, my sister an R&B lover extraordinaire. I consider their diverse tastes to be a blessing that endured.
I’m sorry to hear about the impostor syndrome. Not that I don’t understand it–I’ve been there! But I know you’ve got a story and perspective that is uniquely yours. I hope my seasonal metaphor and your grasp of your milestone gives you the nudge to get back to the page. You’re so darn right–that the world needs your experience and the values that it commends.
Thanks much for a terrific addition to the conversation. Wishing you the best with your writing!
Vaughn, this post made me smile, and laugh, and nod, and even got me teary at several points, starting with your friend’s assessment: “Let me get this straight,” he said. “You first envisioned doing this when you were eleven, you went back to it in your 40s, and now—at 60—you’re about to start publishing the damn thing? That’s remarkable.”
How remarkable all of this is–all of us creating something and persisting and writing our souls onto the page. And how rarely we take time to step back and really see that, feel it. I love that perspective you were offered, and the one you in turn offer here. There’s so much that’s gold in this post–I’ll be sharing this. Excellent advice, and I’m so glad you’ve tapped into your perfect right to offer it. Being a “published author” is just another of those subjective things in this business, isn’t it? That doesn’t affect the legitimacy of the insights you or any other writer has to offer. Thanks, pal. I really love this.
Hi Tiffany! That’s so true, that among writers, the story of persisting with something we felt at a young age is not unique. It really was a blessing that this gentleman offered. Plus, he insisted we go to an old super club that my parents used to love back in the day. It was so weird to be talking about the early 70s in a place where I spent so many celebratory nights at that time. Bonus, the place hasn’t changed a bit.
I think I’m the one who’s always put emphasis the “published writer” thing. It’s funny, now that I’m coming clean about self-pubbing to the non-writers in my life, I can see that it makes almost no difference to them. They’re just all, “Oh, I’ll finally be able to buy your book?” It’s so lovely that it doesn’t even matter than most of them will never actually read it, lol.
Your praise and support mean the world to me, my friend. Thanks much for the great addition to the conversation!
Vaughn, I read much here and comment little, because that’s how I’m wired, but yet again you’ve shared precisely what I need to hear on the day I needed to hear it.
I needed every one of these points you list, and I especially need them as I close in on a strange and scary new stage in my book-writing process: a full draft. Perhaps I’ll never fully get over the sense grad school firmly instilled in me, that any written work I submit to other parties is about to be (horrors) *graded*, so it must be *perfect* or I will suffer the humiliation of being *marked down* (so many horrors indeed!), but oh, I can try, and this is a reminder to do so. Thank you.
Hi Marianna — I’m honored by your reply, and simply delighted to be the one delivering your “message from the Universe” today. Not kidding when I say that finishing, and even succeeding, can be terrifying prospects. I’ve been there!
It’s so damn liberating to finally realize that we–you and I–are the only ones holding us back. Thanks for reading (always), and for this lovely and heartening message. You serve to remind me and all who read your note that we’re in this together. The world needs your stories. Don’t deprive us. Onward!
Seventies soft rock…I’ll refrain from comment on that.
What I do want to say is that it is not crazy to pursue a story (or in your case epic) for decades. That story is meant to last for decades, maybe centuries, so why should it flow quickly and magically in the way of literary myth?
We know it’s not like that. Fiction is an art form that benefits from time, consideration, growing craft, revision and personal maturity. Masterworks are more often written later in life than earlier. If you have taken your time, we will be the beneficiaries.
Looking forward to your tale to come, and not just because historical fantasy is unlikely to quote lyrics by the Moody Blues.
Hi Don — Your very kind appraisal is greatly appreciated, but I must admit, it’s occurred to me recently how glad I am that I didn’t publish this first story too soon. Particularly as I appraise the trilogy I wrote first and will rewrite and publish next. It’s going to be a much different story, but I think that difference will lie mostly in the depth that can now be achieved. I know these characters and the world in a way I never could’ve without the work that’s been put in. Plus, yes, my own maturity.
Thanks for the vote of confidence. I do know this story better, and I believe I’ve been able to make it so in no small part with your insightful aid. So thanks much for being a part of the journey. Thanks, too, for reminding me to strike that allusion to Nights in White Satin in book two.
I’m not sure I can cohere my thoughts well today… But I keep thinking about how autumn and spring are mirror images of one another, and how seasons are cyclical, and how it feels to me like you’re exactly where you need to be for now.
Golly, Kristan–coming from you, this feels like the most lovely praise and encouragement, all rolled up in one. To me, you cohere beautifully. Thank you, my friend.
You got it! Now I gotta get it!! All you said was spot on, and clearly music can influence a writing journey. During 2020, I wrote a book of poems while sitting on our boat, listening to songs on my iPod that, through a line of lyrics, formulated the emotion for poem after poem. BTW, it’s Pandemic Poems: Survivor Notes available at Amazon for Kindle, tablet, phone. Regarding the seasons, I ran the gamut, and the music served me well. My muse was sitting beside me, and I felt the lightning and resonated in the thunder. When people say to live in the present, I say sure, but not so much. The past is a beautiful (or not-so-beautiful) store: we’ve paid for everything in advance. All we need to do is pluck those memories (or fractions of them) and go to town. I truly enjoyed your article. I have manuscripts unpublished too. (I so hate editing!!!!!!!!!!!)
HI Alice, I’ve often thought that maybe I should include some of my biggest musical influencers in my acknowledgments. But then I realize I can’t, as there are just too damn many of them.
Sitting on a boat, jotting poetry, sounds pretty wonderful right now (about 20 degrees F where I am ). Don’t let those manuscripts get stale. We all have the parts of this we love less. But we’ve got to remember how lucky we are, even on the days we do those things. Thanks for a lovely addition to the conversation. Wishing you the best!
Vaughn, I applaud ever single one of your points. All of them. What I write, what I’ve finally allowed myself to write, is a vision born in the seventies while I was struggling to negotiate some truly awful times. Somehow, I survived all that, along with being so long lost afterwards, to find my purpose twenty years ago. Then, illness. I survived that, too. Now, here I am and discovering these are the best days of my life. I’ve found my voice and, quite frankly, I don’t care if anyone likes what I write, though I believe there’s an audience.
My taste in music is what it is and I discard the rest. That applies to every decade, even those before I was born. I’m eclectic, but also a mass of contradictions. I’m okay with that now. The decade that began with the Beatles’ end, ended with Blondie and Pat Benatar. It was the decade when women truly emerged in the music industry and that makes me happy. Life hit me with its best shot and I’m still here, and writing about I learned.
Hi Christina! It’s funny, isn’t it? How, for those of us who heard that call, it can stick with us. I’ve always considered my writing journey to be a gift, but maybe–just maybe–it’s a gift that’s bestowed on those who truly need it. I wonder. Maybe it’s the need that cements the way it keeps coming back to us, and leads to our persistence.
I love what you’re saying about the emergence of women in rock–that makes me happy, too. So many female voices have dominated the soundtrack of my life, but man–that Pat Benatar. I can see how well she suites your journey, for sure. Fire away, my friend. Thanks for such a great addition to the conversation. It’s always great to be reminded how long we’ve climbed alongside one another. Such a blessing.
What a wonderful, evocative post. Thank you. As a writer who didn’t even get started until, say, my ‘October’, your words provoked a mixed bag of feelings. From a clutch at the heart to a tear, “Night Moves” also does that for me every time I hear it, not as often now as I let Sirius lapse in favor of an alternate service. Seger’s magic trick of lyrical time warping came back full force when I gave it play last night. Although you are probably too young to recall what top 40 radio was like, the Bridge was starting to feel that way for me. I switched to several streaming services to do research for my novel which is set smack in the middle of the seventies. I wanted to be careful to not refer to any song that wasn’t around in ’74 and it killed me to leave a few out. It’s sad, yet understandable how carefully writers have to tread around music to avoid copyright infringement! And a fist in the air and a “Hell Yeah!”, for each of your six markers, the best first. Beyond that, why bother writing at all? Can’t wait to read what’s brought you fire all this time.
Hey Deb! Well, since you came to writing straight from autumn, I can confidently say that you’re a natural! I’ll never forget that first piece I heard when you won the contest. Although I don’t recall the words themselves, I clearly recall the beauty of the way you strung them together, and their emotional impact.
Boy, do I recall top 40. I grew up in a town where the only rock on the radio was on the AM dial. We later got a few FM stations out of a larger nearby city, but our local station, WKMI, was all about playing that heavy rotation. I get what you mean about The Bridge. And you’re so right about the darn shame in regard to the difficulty in utilizing lyrics–so many writers are so heavily influenced by them.
So glad my list resonates for you. Here’s to staying true to ourselves, in a fist-pumping, hell-yeah, sort of way. Thanks for the support, and for enhancing the conversation. Onward!
Such a strong and inspiring post! Just what I needed to hear, as a lifelong writer who published her first book at age 60. You make me want to keep writing on my current novel, putting off that dreaded frozen winter as long as possible. Thank you!
Hi Carolyn, Huzzah, another debut at 60. Our experience has to count for something, right? I hope to have given you the nudge that gets the words flowing for you. Thanks much for letting me know!
Hey Vaughn, your post really connected with me today. At 56 and waiting for my debut novel, still in production due to pandemic slow downs, you helped me realized that Autumn is my favorite season. I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be, doing exactly what I want to do. Many thanks.
Ah, then my job is truly done here. That’s the best result I can imagine. Thanks for letting me know, Caren. Wishing you the very best with your debut!
I want to echo others by saying I love this post! There are quite a few songs in a similar 70s-80s pop-rock vein that are melancholy and wistful beyond the initial impressions, if you give them a chance. But I’m pretty basic in my music tastes!! I like the “autumn writer” idea. I’m in my 40s now and have just 1 published piece of fiction to my name as an adult, it’s felt like I should give up at this stage of my life. Your posts are encouraging – although I can’t tell you how incredibly jealous of you I am that you up and moved to the shores of Lake Michigan!! :)
Hi Karin — It’s so true, how many songs we’ve passed by with a general impression, that turn out to be so much more meaningful. I’ve been discovering more and more of them since I first wrote this post.
Oh, goodness, you’re still a youngster, creatively speaking. So glad to have provided some encouragement to keep you striving. And, yes, living near this gorgeous natural phenomenon is truly a blessing–the gift that keeps on giving. I recommend up and moving to the place that will provide you with a daily sense of wonder. Life’s too short to not consider it!
Thanks much for reading and for your very kind note. Onward!
Beautifully done, Vaughn. I love this. Not only because I’ll have Night Moves running through my head all day but because it feels like the right approach to creativity and to life. I kind of love music from many genres in many different decades, but often times it takes someone else to help me appreciate (or re-appreciate) the music. Like what you’ve done here.
Aw shucks, thanks, Yuvi. Means a lot coming from someone whom I find so wonderfully creative and inspirational.
I hear ya, regarding having to be led to appreciate the music I don’t often listen to. An old friend came over a while back and we were listening to old music in my iTunes library (yeah, I still use one of those old-fashioned things), and she asked me if I had an Seger. I must’ve made a face when I told her no. She was all, “Dude, he was more poetic than we remember. Plus, he’s a Michigander.” ‘Nuff said. I started paying more attention to a dude I’d considered utterly stale for decades.
Thanks again! Here’s to those who nudge us to new appreciation.
V, there’s a reason people are statistically happier in the autumn of their lives than at any other point. Generally, they’re over other people’s opinions and enjoy enough financial and social freedom to heed their own internal wisdom. So glad you’re there, my friend. xo
Ah, how perfect. Leave it to you, Boss, to boil it all down to a succinct version, so full of wisdom.
Thanks, Jan! Miss you, my friend. <3
Late to the party, as usual, but this is a wonderful post, V. I love autumn, and 70s rock is my happy place. I nodded my way through your list, but this is the point that made me nod the hardest:
“I spent way too many hours of my writing life thinking that there must be some value to dissenting critique. The opposite has been true. Yes, it can devalue your work. Worse, it can devalue your self-esteem.”
It’s a lot of power to give over to a reader, isn’t it? They have to be worthy of your trust. In terms of critique itself, I’m a firm believer in the gut check. If it doesn’t ring true — if not immediately, then after a reflective pause — jettison away! But I think the same could be said for a gut check over the critiquer. Follow your gut. It knows best.
Couldn’t be happier for you, V, as you bring your masterwork closer to publication. You’ve got this.
You’re so right, T. But then, who could be surprised? Not me. Heck, not only are you always right, half of what I know about writing and the writer’s life I learned from you. Even if it was only by following your example, or breathing in what you exude about being a creative.
It’s such an honor, that this list rang true for so many. It reinforces the metaphoric miles I’ve walked to get here. Sometimes you only glean how much work you put in through a response like this. Thanks, as always, T–for the opportunity you continue to provide for me to connect with likeminded souls. And thanks for always being a guiding light.
Aww, Major W, you got me. Thanks, V.
I sit on a deck as thunder clouds collide overhead. Just before reading your post, the rush of birds wings moved me to tears. When was the last time I stilled to sit with words? To listen for their whispers?
The gift of the autumn writer, the wise autumn writer, is the time to still and sit with words. You are a wise writer who has listened well. Thank you for reminding me, through your beautiful words, of what truly matters.
Hey Ginny — Well, now you’ve gone and made my Monday. Thank so much for your kind and lovely comment!