Small Potatoes
essay by Susanna Solomon
(written in SFO, while waiting for a plane)
I’m a woman of a certain age, and just recently, realized I will always be a small potatoes kind of writer.
My work will never be on the “New York Times Best Seller” list. Nor will my books ever be “Book of the Month Club,” or get a five star review on Kirkus Reviews, or ever really climb out of the basement at Amazon.
This thinking caused a crisis of confidence and stopped me in my tracks. Oh, how I long for another launch, accolades from my peers, adulations in the press. I can say I have arrived! After ten, twenty, thirty, or forty years of writing I do hope I know what I’m doing, by now, at last, so, come recognize me, send some applause my way.
There are books out there with my name on them, and I have to, just have to, believe that they are valuable. And important. Why, do you ask? Silly stories about an old woman full of opinions who has a rather large husband who adores her? And who cares about a robot who looks like a woman and yearns for romance?
These are not real stories about heroes looking for adventure or on quests to find golden treasure. Nor are they mysteries where detectives search for justice for a woman who wandered down a dark alley after dark. Nor are they thrillers that depend on the hero to save the world from imminent disaster from meteors or monsters or mayhem.
My people, my characters, are like the people you would meet on the street, hoping for love, a connection, a way to find their way in the world. Some of them, like Marvin, want to take their girlfriends out for dinner and will do anything to get a chunk of change. Others, like Alice, a teenager of fourteen, has nosebleeds at the most awkward of times, but still perseveres. Or Linda, a deputy, who goes out on patrols without backup to prove to her father that she can be a good cop. Or Dorothy, who feels lonely and unloved but becomes an inadvertent hero and surprises her family with her courage. We see them all as schlubs, people who are just a little out of step with the rest of the world. Like us.
Some writers like me are bold or shy, some of us have stains on our clothes, or holes in our sweaters because we just forgot, or some of us have stage fright and would never never never get up in front of a crowd and read our work. We usually feel less than. We are not beautiful, but we are driven.
I may be a known person in my small community of writers, where we extoll our brethren, cheer their accomplishments, applaud their stories which make us weep, or smile or laugh, or fall asleep. But in the bigger world? No. Now the bigger question is, am I okay with that? Am I okay with being a small potato?
In the grand scheme of things, does it matter? Do I make people laugh? Sometimes. Do I make people cry? Sometimes. Do I bore them, I sure hope not, but when I write whatever it is, about aliens, or lovers, or robots, or old ladies, I do my best to tell their stories. My characters are clamoring for attention and need to be heard. How can I ignore their voices calling out to me?
I can’t. They are in me, where they will always live, eager to tell their stories, and I must listen. So I do what I can, satisfied, I guess, with one word after another, one story after another, one year after another, one book after another, one more small potato for the pot.
END