The master failed writer

I write this post on behalf of failed writers. The definition of a failed writer is simple, and not so simple. A failed writer is one who claims he is a writer; he may even write regularly. Perhaps he writes every day. He might arise each morning at 6:00 a.m. to put pen to page. Let's say he comes up with as many as two thousand words in a sixty-minute interval. We don't care what he writes. Brilliant blog posts. Articles a propos endangered species. Interviews with high profile community figure heads. Full chapters toward potentially best selling novels. Comedy sketches witty and thoughtful enough to put SNL to shame. He dabbles into it all, in fact.

But though this lonely gentleman may be a very skilled writer, and quite a versatile writer (if he does say so himself), he is failing. Because nobody recognizes him as a paid writer. He has no freelancing gigs to speak of. He quit his job as an online newspaper reporter, where he was making a measly $200 a month writing about dog owners (an executed decision because he needed "something deeper"). He toils away at aforementioned materials, sends out resumes for part time this and that for a copy writer, a resume writer, a blog poster, a features editor. In return, he gets no response; in his mind, the sad man is a failed writer. A wordsmith who has thrown his hands in the air and shouted, there is no money to be made--meaningfully or otherwise--in this stupid business.

I know how the man feels. I ran into this stranger one night, late, at the Walgreen's in my Chicago neighborhood, coined Ravenswood. I was there on a mission for eye drops, given my unrelenting, late-summer allergies. And he was there, in aisle 8. His eyes were blood shot (I could relate to that detail too, as it were), and he looked as though he was going to cry (if he had not done already). He appeared drunk, but somehow I knew that he was not drunk. Call it a hunch. Now, I realize it might have been a writer-to-writer hunch. Writers can often sense things of other writers--a sixth sense of sorts--among their species. Is this true? Oh, I don't know.

In any case, this failed writer who appeared drunk but in the end proved only sad and confused and lost as a writer, painfully sober was he, managed to look up to face me. He forced a half smile, and then his gaze returned to what he was erstwhile eyeing: a Maxim magazine. A surge of sympathy--empathy, even--warmed my skin. A blast of raw, sanguine compassion deliberating through my insides. And there, in that moment, I really did feel his pain.

I had half a mind to say something to the red-eyed man. Ask him if he was okay. He certainly didn't appear okay: his hair was a-muck. Either he had recently been having love relations, had come to from a very long nap, had suffered the labors of an unskilled coiffeur, or had been pulling at his roots from frustration and mind chaos. I realized it was the latter--a feeling I know. All too well, in fact.

Many a night have I spent awake, as a writer, or a failed writer, or a not-yet-tried writer, wondering how I could dare put words to page. Words unlike those of the extolled greats, but instead phrases and fragments which read as hardly more than horseshit, really. None of the conjunctions or transitions or topics making sense in juxtaposition. Mismatched metaphors. Hyperbolic expressions, like a child would weave. Weak euphemisms swimming through my prose, like drunken sperm attempting to blindly fertilize an egg--all the while hackneying any attempt at a unified, authoritative voice. I wrote like a fucking child!

'Tis what I thought, when I was alone during those late nights. And so I felt this man's pain in that moment. But though I started to say something to the poor guy, nothing came out. I even tried a couple different times, in a couple different ways. Nothing. As I selected my eye drops and commenced to go, he said something: It's a bitch you know. But when he said it, he was looking down at the Maxim magazine. I didn't respond, but I didn't leave, which to him must have been the same as saying, I beg your pardon?

Avery Dushane, he said. This woman was featured on the cover, I surmised. Later, when I would go home and look it up online, I would learn the featured subject was indeed Avery Dushane. As far as I could tell, just another floozy model that had probably done a million other covers like such. And again, there in the moment, I refrained from an audible response. I only looked at the sad man, which must have conveyed to him, I don't know what you mean.

You know I dated her, he said, as he ran ink-stained fingers through his disheveled coif. It was a question, I guess. Still I didn't say anything; just stood there like a deer in front of a car at night. Long ago, he continued. I took photos of her, even interviewed her. I pitched the piece months after the fact. And this is the bitch of it, he added, his tone moving toward excitement.

And there was me. In a grimy, offensively lit Walgreens somewhere on the northeast side of Chicago. About to hear what the bitch of this man's run in was with Avery Doucheman or whatever and the sad man's business of pitching to magazines. There I stood, serving as listener to this lonely writer's tale. I could tell he was getting a big bang out of it. I'm sure that's how Holden Caulfield would think on the matter, anyhow. For a moment, I even felt like a kind of hero, revealing to this man a sliver of interest in his insignificant plight.

The bitch of it, he repeated, emphasizing the word bitch, was I pitched it to Maxim! We've featured too many European models these past several issues, the man said, in a nasally voice, like he was imitating a whiny child or something. Check back in two years, he mumbled, now in his own voice, and flicked the cover with his inky middle finger.

And then there was silence. Just me standing there, feeling kind of lost and naked and largely sympathetic still, and him shaking his head, surveying the magazine cover as if the opportunity to plunge into its pages and strangle the bodies which comprised the publication's masthead, or Avery such and such herself presented itself, he'd take it at the speed of a sonic boom.

Eh, who cares, it's just a stupid magazine, right? This was his revelation, the sad man's newest audible thought. But this time, I answered. Exactly right, I said, and I managed a subtle smile ... just a stupid magazine. Yeah, he said, nodding and putting the magazine back in its place on the rack. Just a silly magazine. After he said this, we looked at each other for a long moment, with all of the comfortable feelings silently exchanged between old friends. But we weren't old friends, not but for that final moment.

After our few shared seconds, I wondered if the man would be okay. But then it was time to go. I knew I'd never find out. And even now, I hope he is okay--or even writing about not being okay. Failed writer in his mind perhaps, but in mine, a master failed writer ... at least.

My Letter to Michael Pollan

Hi Michael,

I could make this email quite long and explain how I've thought to contact you for several weeks now, after viewing 'Food Inc.' and then voraciously devouring your 'The Omnivore's Dilemma' and 'A Place of My Own.' I could yammer about how both your writing style and belief system have captivated me with a renewed inspiration as a writer, as well as hope that I might yet be able to find a journalistic niche as well.

But now I'm making the email long, so forgive me. I write because I'm attempting to puncture the world of freelance journalism. To do so, I am working on an essay about how the issues you raised in 'The Omnivore's Dilemma' have drastically altered my perspective, allowing me to "wake up," so to speak, to many of the world's issues. To carve my own path as a steward for these issues, as you have done.

But I can't yet get to the bottom of why this information is so fascinating for me. So I thought I'd ask you:

What was the defining moment (or set of events) which led to your unrelenting pursuit to dissect and reveal the Food Industry the way you so deftly do? In short, why food for you? Is it a pursuit that grew unforeseen? Or did you wake up one day and say, Ah ha! Now I know what I must do?

If by some silly chance you respond to this email, might I use your answer in my essay for publication? Either way, I'm ever so obliged, simply for you and for the work that you do.

Kindest regards,

Jinnene Foster
freelance writer/college writing instructor, Chicago

Wake up and smell aware

Recently, I embarked upon a new mission to live awake. That is, to engage in ongoing education (of myself, and then hopefully, for my students) regarding issues in our economy, society and environment. "Sustainability" is the term our world has adopted to coin the trend to improve each of these vital sectors. For each of these systems suffer; not only among my own community in Chicago, but globally as well.

Phrases like "sustainability" and "going green" might unfortunately be apt to serve as reasons for turned heads against these enterprises. I know that, because in the past, these were the exact types of terms I would hear about in social circles, or catch a faint glimpse of in the occasional article, but also never paid much mind to follow up on. This could be due to my (albeit ever maturing) rebellious nature, and a desire to ignore all things media grabbing and seemingly complicated in nature. But I also attribute my ambivalence to just that: the sheer complication of what these issues entail on a community member level.

Going green, as far as I could recently understand, meant paying more mind to recycling, incorporating more LED lights into the household, being mindful toward the amount of energy and water we use at home and a cornucopia of very high-tech, scientific practices that someone on an aspiring freelance writer/part time college teacher's salary could never partake in. Like I own property, or if I did, would I have money to implement a green roof? If only.

But then, several weeks ago, my boyfriend Ian and I visited Nationwide video in Lakeview, for purposes of turning up a new title that might (if we were lucky) assuage our household entertainment thirsts for the evening. We found a couple of winners (the names of which elude me, so maybe they weren't superior winners), and I was pleased. It's always disheartening to leave the video store empty handed, if only because it reminds your cultural craving that a lot of crap film is produced in this world. That or the video store carries a limited selection. Or I simply see more movies than I probably should, as I don't much care for repeat viewings.

But before I checked out, for whatever reason, Food Inc. popped into my mind (it wasn't among the pair we'd selected), and I asked the clerk if the store carried it. The dark-haired, bespectacled and jovial sir looked it up and said they did. Always the compliment to my methods, Ian then graciously retrieved the small tab from where the film lived on the shelves of the section "Documentary/TV Shows" (to signal to future customers the film had been rented). I signed the slip that states I promise to return the selections, we three said our thank yous, exchanged smiles, and Ian and me were homeward bound.

What fun! I thought, as we walked north to the Ravenswood area. I had wanted to see the much talked about film since I attended Michael Pollan's lecture at the Harold Washington Library some years ago (the film is closely correlated with Pollan's work explored through his book, The Omnivore's Dilemma). But little did I know what was in store for me; or that the film would ultimately change my world view. I began to notice this change almost immediately when we arrived home and fired up the DVD. Over the next days, I would observe the change ever more each day as I digested more literature on the subjects explored through the film.

The film, for those who aren't familiar, approaches topics of the U.S. food industry. It delves into the simple, yet not so comfortable question to face: Where the heck does our food really come from? The answers are far less than glamorous. And yet, when you get right down to it, though it can initially be disheartening to learn about the perils of our food economy: that we mistreat animals to produce meat on a mass scale to name one, there is something inherently satisfying about knowing how food A gets from point X to point Y (where Y in this case equals my plate). This film, I would come to find, would set in a motion a quest for me to consider "the truth" behind our food.

Note to the reader: I understand that "truth" is an interpretive concept. Of course I took this material at face value. But believe me when I say that "Food Inc." makes a very compelling argument about the to and fro of American grub.

And so what about all that exactly happened to me--in my mind, and to my senses--in those initial moments of watching the film? It was like my soul was craving a message, and this message was the one to latch upon: Stare your food in the face. Really peer into how our food is processed before reaching our naive little plates.

I don't know about you: I'd rather be disgusted and informed, as opposed to oblivious and not disgusted. That's just me. Awareness is the most beautiful gift in life, even if it can be tough to embrace at first glance.

And more on this upcoming ... In the meantime: Watch Food Inc., and stay informed about what you put in your mouth.