Summary

A reflective writer contemplates their personal journey, the evolution of their writing style, and the influence of a poignant book found in a second-hand store.

Abstract

The author shares a personal narrative about their discovery of a captivating, albeit disturbing, book in a San Francisco bookstore, which prompts introspection on their writing style and aspirations. Despite a childhood dream of becoming a fisherman, the author has embraced a straightforward writing approach, eschewing the complexities of academia. The article delves into the challenges of capturing the human experience through art, the author's struggle with their identity as a writer, and the lingering doubts about the effectiveness of their "say-it-as-it-is" style. The piece concludes with the writer's resolve to fulfill their potential through their craft, despite the likelihood of limited recognition.

Opinions

The author values authenticity and emotional rawness in writing, as evidenced by their reaction to the book found in the second-hand store.
There is a sense of disillusionment with the idea that art can fully express the human condition, with the author acknowledging the limitations of their craft.
The writer harbors some regret about not pursuing a childhood dream, yet acknowledges the wisdom in their father's advice against it.
The author is introspective about their growth, recognizing the departure from their youthful anti-intellectual stance and the adoption of a more grounded perspective.
Despite self-doubt, the writer is determined to continue their journey in writing, driven by personal conviction rather than the promise of acclaim.

I Didn’t Become a Baker, Fisherman or Carpenter

But I haven't wasted my life.

I love to squander time perusing second-hand bookstores, having no idea what I’m looking for. On Friday afternoon, I found an interesting book. The cover drew my attention, scruffy, dog-eared, neglected-looking volume. Although badly faded, the cover featured a picture of a Nazi concentration camp.

Nonetheless, I was intrigued enough to examine its pages. I paid an exorbitant amount to own it and headed to lunch in the Terrace Room at the Cliff House restaurant overlooking Seal Rock in the Land’s End area of San Francisco.

I ordered a turkey sandwich and a pint of Guinness. After an hour, I concluded the book lacked functional language and was written in a minimal form, yet it showed all human compassion and emotional range in its pages in a glaringly blunt style. It sickened me. It was brilliant.

It could have been written by any aesthete who wrote to consider every situation and every emotion and end up with none that was human.

I might have thought less of the writing had it been written in any other style.

I consider my writing style inadequate. I have learned that no art form can fully express all that is human. Art can use a smattering of emotion and babble but reveal little.

Since becoming a writer, I have struggled to imagine the kind of writer I wish to be. Most importantly, the anti-academia-intellectual spirit of my youth, my deadliest enemy, has been slain. I’ve come a long way to grow up. My penmanship links me to the humble, ordinary person who knows his worth and has no illusions.

But honestly, I never wanted to belong to everyday people, and I did not want my outlook to look simplistic.

I have come to doubt whether my simple say-it-as-it-is style is any better or if it is the right one for a writer with only a simplistic message. Perhaps the only message is trying to convince myself, so I string along just to be the adult I’ve become.

I wonder what happened to the boy whose father asked at supper one night:

“What will you choose to do? You can be anything you want. What is it?”

“A fisherman, Dad.”

“You can’t be that! It’s not a proper profession.”

Parents would be shunned for such words today, but Dad was right. “It was silly.” I was in a daze — what a dream, poor young thing.

I watched the baker bake, the fishermen fish, and the carpenter carve.

My turkey sandwich is almost done.

Today, I’m an old guy looking out on the vastness of potential.

Someday, I’m going to fulfill all I want in my writing.

There won’t be any recognition, but even at this age, lots of conviction.

Please visit and read: The Doctor — Joanie Adams

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Who Are My Readers?

Aid An Old Fool In Her Curiosity, Won’t Yer?

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More from Harry:

Through The Fog

A piece of prose

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