I recently had a discussion with a friend of mine about the acceptable behavior of a writer. We agreed that a “real writer,” i.e. a writer with talent, would never say, “Yes, I’m a writer, and a fine one at that.” It seems to me that along with literary talent comes an almost debilitating self-consciousness; a humility born not of social mores, but rather an omnipresent feeling of insecurity.
This is of course not the case for all writers. Hemingway prided himself on his hauteur, though I think his public persona, as well as his alcoholism, masked much of his shaky confidence. His friend F. Scott Fitzgerald on the other hand was notoriously insecure — the impromptu check-up described by Hemingway in A Movable Feast says it all — and his attendant alcoholism destroyed him.
So where am I going with all this? Basically, I too have been having a certain crisis of confidence. Who am I to expound on the glories of literature? Who am I to use words like “expound,” and phrases like “glories of literature?” It is my presumption that this blog, and my writing, is halfway decent, and that people may want to read it. I don’t profess to be authoritative in my opinions in any way; a lay reader’s visceral response to a book is as valid as anything I could say here. I simply hope that I notice some things a lay reader might miss on a first reading, and maybe these observations can at least surprise, if not edify.
