lorri giovinco-harte

Back when I was in college, I attended a talk at a local Barnes and Noble by a fairly well known author.  The topic was “Tips for getting published.”  There were maybe twenty of us there, all budding writers, eager to absorb any professional advice that we could get.  We sat around in a circle, notebooks open, ready to hear his advice.

He wasn’t a particularly friendly man.  His demeanor was rather matter-of-fact as he stood in front of the podium that the store had provided for him.  His gaze indicated that he was not going to welcome eye contact but preferred to speak his piece uninterrupted.

Never having met a well known author before, I had no preconceived notions about how one should behave.  I, like most of the people there, simply wanted to hear what he had to say.

He began by stating that he was going to tell us the story of how he became a successful, published author.  We awaited anxiously.

His story went something like this:

He had never wanted to be an author, never even thought about writing – in fact, he was well established in a completely different field. (I can’t quite remember which field he said he was involved in, but I believe it might have been financial planning.)

One evening, he attended a dinner at the home of his college roommate who had become an editor for a publishing firm.  They got to talking about their lives and careers and the roommate made an interesting suggestion.  He remembered that his friend had always been a pretty good writer and made him a proposition; if you write a book and it’s decent, I’ll publish it.  He thought about his friend’s offer and decided to give it a try.  The rest, as they say, is history.

The room became rather quiet as we tried to digest the information.  I’m not sure if the overall feeling among the audience was disappointment or if it was a quiet resignation but, I did notice that most of the notebooks began quietly closing.

He went on to give a half-hearted speech about never giving up and extolled the virtues of persistence.  I don’t quite remember exactly what he said because I had stopped listening.

I was younger then and had rigid, preconceived notions about the artistic process and the necessity for struggle.   I, therefore, immediately dismissed his words and vowed never to read any of his books.

Looking back, though, I realize that it was rather foolish to judge him simply because he was fortunate.  What difference did it make if he entered the field through personal connections?  We should all be so lucky.  In addition, his honesty about how he achieved success could probably be seen as admirable and ultimately serve to teach us all some very valuable lessons.  It would have been easy, and dare I say more palatable, for him to tell us a story about personal struggle and tenacity.  It probably would have created more admiration.  Instead, he simply told us the truth.

The funny thing is, though, to this day, I have never read a single one of his books.

Some things just stick with you.