DAVID BARRIE
Monday, 9th May 2011. On (not) being a writer.
Some time ago I was invited by a local school with a substantial Anglophone population to come along and speak about how to go about writing a detective story. This proved an interesting and revealing exercise – amongst other things I learned that if you have the choice, work with a group of 10 year-olds rather than 15 year-olds, as the former don't worry about being seen to be keen, and haven't yet had their imaginations hijacked by the gore-steeped gothic paradigm that holds contemporary adolescents in its sway.
One thing that did give me pause for thought, however, was being introduced as a writer. Had I been described as the author of a handful of crime novels, I wouldn't have batted an eyelid. But isn't writer the name of a profession, and don't you have to come close to earning your living by it to claim it (for if no money is forthcoming, and you still keep scribbling, aren't you – following doctor Johnson – no more than a blockhead)? I must confess – for I am old enough to have regained a 10 year-old's capacity to unashamedly own up to what rattles about inside my skull – that I immediately thought not so much of Samuel Johnson as of Mark Knopfler. Or, more precisely, of Harry, the keyboard player in the Sultans of Swing, who has got a day job and is doing all right. I doubt Harry would call himself a pianist (for all we know he could be an accountant), so until one of my books has sold, let's say, ten thousand copies, I'll still feel slightly uncomfortable with the term "writer".
Some time ago I was invited by a local school with a substantial Anglophone population to come along and speak about how to go about writing a detective story. This proved an interesting and revealing exercise – amongst other things I learned that if you have the choice, work with a group of 10 year-olds rather than 15 year-olds, as the former don't worry about being seen to be keen, and haven't yet had their imaginations hijacked by the gore-steeped gothic paradigm that holds contemporary adolescents in its sway.
One thing that did give me pause for thought, however, was being introduced as a writer. Had I been described as the author of a handful of crime novels, I wouldn't have batted an eyelid. But isn't writer the name of a profession, and don't you have to come close to earning your living by it to claim it (for if no money is forthcoming, and you still keep scribbling, aren't you – following doctor Johnson – no more than a blockhead)? I must confess – for I am old enough to have regained a 10 year-old's capacity to unashamedly own up to what rattles about inside my skull – that I immediately thought not so much of Samuel Johnson as of Mark Knopfler. Or, more precisely, of Harry, the keyboard player in the Sultans of Swing, who has got a day job and is doing all right. I doubt Harry would call himself a pianist (for all we know he could be an accountant), so until one of my books has sold, let's say, ten thousand copies, I'll still feel slightly uncomfortable with the term "writer".