Writer’s Angst by Roy
Roy Dimond is the author of I, Bully published by Motivational Press and
launching early in the new year. It is a compelling story about cyber-bullying
told from the perspective of both the victim and the bully.
His first novel is, The Singing Bowl, by Green Dragon Books. Roy's second
book, Silence and Circumstance is a fictional account of the 11 days that Agatha
Christie went missing and is published by Untreed Reads.
Roy has also signed with Motivational Press for his next novel, with a working
title of, Saving Our Pennys. Melange Press is launching yet another book by Roy
Dimond in November of 2017 titled, The Rubicon Effect.
Roy had a few words of encouragement for all writers and we are very proud to
The writer’s life is simple enough — we write. Some sit with perfect views
while blue birds chirp their spring songs. Others stare at verdant fields where
poplars sway ever so gently. A few might huddle to keep warm behind antique
windows, staring down at the mighty Atlantic where waves crash with white winter
froth on the serrated rocks below. Still others slave in dank, dark, corners,
away from family and friends — no matter the view, all are obsessed.
United in angst, poised with chosen tool of torture, pen and paper, typewriter,
or keyboard, hands shake like the addict who stares forlornly at the dreaded
needle. We hate what we have become, fragile without our fix — and so we
We shall not call it war because the empty page and the writer need each
other. While one mocks with its virgin surface, the other desires to scar it
with letters and words. We become lost to the mortal world for uncountable
years, while rearranging, shuffling, deleting, and eventually, inevitably,
falling passionately in love with what we have written.Then, predictably, doubt
ruins whatever we dared have faith in, those despicable printed words on that
loathsome, pristine page.
We suffer pure mockery, not the snickering of invisible critics, or rejection
from mighty publishers ensconced behind castle walls, or even the silence
of ghostly agents, but only by our own need for perfection, the ever faithless
demands of some unseen miser, a poser who calls himself muse.
As the flawless white sheet is rolled into the typewriter, or magically appears
after swiping the computer screen, with its infinite choices of font and text,
or, of course, the ever-simple writing pad, the oldest of all weapons of mockery
— our minds hesitate and the inner voice is shrill. Bring it on! Damn that
subtle God, muse or miser be vanquished, the One called, Mockery, shall not win
And then suddenly you have it — synchronicity, yin and yang, simpatico — the
writer’s life and the tabula rasa in love again. Patiently, even gleefully,
possibly even maniacally, they gaze upon one another. Yet, the other side of the
coin lurks ominously, ever present.
Perfection? No. Not today — start again.
The writer mulls — crumple it up, flick it into the fire, press the delete
button, vanquish it before it does you. Write the heartfelt words, write the
truth that Stephen King encourages, but is it worthy? Is Hemingway laughing from
behind his favourite drink, the gin martini? Does Steinbeck sneer down from the
Pantheon of writers? Or, as usual, is it just the writer's angst?
Meaningless — worthless — tripe! The words pound in the brain like the waves
that crash on shore, the power of an entire ocean behind them. The mocking
laughter cannot be denied; the crashing waves cannot be silenced. He finds other
words to describe, to buffer — contemptuous, derisive, scornful, disdainful,
sardonic, but in the end, it is always the same — mockery.
So this is the writer’s life. Pure ridicule. Jack London with his six hundred
rejections, and yet he and all his fellow writers know nothing brought agony
like the first words on the blank sheet.
Nevertheless, the budding tale, the boundless narrative, the untold story’s
limitless potential calls relentlessly. The waves repeat the same thing again
and again, write… write… write. In the deep darkness of the night, in the
purity of pre-dawn, even before waking, the paper flutters. Perfection?
Maybe this time.
Only two things dictate the writer’s life. The courage of one’s imagination
and the ability to overcome the incessant, inevitable, mocking. To put word to
unspoiled paper, to dare to dent the page and forever remove its inherent
perfection. To press the first letter on the keyboard. Only the mocking
divides the reader from the writer, a simple thing, yet insurmountable to most,
that judgmental prissiness that stares back from the silent paper or
screen. Overcome that and the writer’s life blossoms, no matter what the