O Slater! My Slater! - Julie

I spent last weekend at the beach with some friends I've known for almost 15 years. One of these friends began writing during the time that we started hanging out (coincidence, or Julie the Muse-Friend?). Thus far he has published about ten children's books, numerous short stories, has two young adult novels and one grown-up collection of short stories coming out within the next few months and a screenplay in the works.

He's very good. I mean, I read his stuff, and I have very little intelligent feedback. "Wow, it's good," I say to him (at least that's what I said when he used to ask me).

But his success has more to do with two qualities that he possesses and I covet. He is dogged. He writes everyday, just churns it out. At school when he should be teaching, at home when he should be doing the dishes, on the beach when the rest of his friends are inside drinking. Just writes and writes and revises. And then does a few dishes. And then sends it everywhere he can think of until someone takes it.

Which leads me to his second quality. I have never heard him interpret lack of response to his work by editors and publishers as an obvious indication of his lack of talent, quality, or worthiness. The most emotion I've seen him display at the capriciousness of the publishing business is a shoulder shrug. I have never heard him compare his writing to others for better or worse. I have never heard him say, as he hands a draft to someone, "now this is really stupid..."

He might be the exact opposite of me.

Maybe the next time we all meet at the beach it will be a Friday the 13th, and he and I will switch bodies for a while, like Freaky Friday, and my body could see what it feels like to be dogged and self-assured. Or maybe we'll all be chased down and slaughtered by a guy in a hockey mask. You never know.