Spencer Dryden
I describe myself as a gregarious loner. In this
realm, many things only exist in contrast, so an oxymoron seems appropriate as
a self label. If you met me—and it's unlikely, given my reticence about
people—you'd probably find me to be a witty, engaging and delightful person. I am,
to a point, but I am not comfortable around people, less and less so as I get
older. I especially avoid crowded places. I have that figure/ground hearing
thing. Hello, is anybody in there?
I think it would be odd to meet a writer who is a
glad handing extrovert. Our craft involves introspection, observation, the
creation of other realities. We need separation. A touch of melancholy serves
me well.
To paraphrase the professional golfer, Fred Couples,
I hate the sound of my phone ringing. Inevitably, there is someone at the other
end and they want something from me. I like texts. Send me a text anytime.
My standard of friendship is my partner in failed
business ventures, John Young. Among his many talents, he was (too disabled
now) a skilled DIY'er, having restored several turn of the century homes. He
loved them and loved the craftsmanship. When my wife and I bought a Victorian
home sadly in need of repair, John loaded his tools and drove all the way
across the country to help me and infect me with the DIY bug. A friend knows
what you need without you asking, and shares what they have without diminishing
themselves. While we failed in business, John's gift to me has been a great
source of security for my wife and I, and
part-time cash to support my writing jones. I am Homo Habilis Rex (The Handyman King) You should have a friend like me. I can fix stuff. I have shared my partner's gift to me by always making time for widows and single moms who don't have anyone for those annoying household repairs.
Facebook has distorted the meaning of friendship. I
embraced Facebook at first, as a way to connect with long lost family and
friends. Lately, in the real world, I've
been unfriending as much as friending. I'm really not interested in your latest
rant on guns, abortion, or your definition of a patriot. You're not my friend,
you're just someone who has my address. Go away.
As an emerging author however, under a pen name, I
have frequently wished I had 50,000 friends who could be urged to read my book
and pass it along to ten friends, qualifying them for the blessing of angels,
fairies, or what ever—and don't break the chain. Not. I hope you don't want that kind of friend
either, no matter what dimension you occupy.
For all my grumbling, the web has brought me the
opportunity to participate in a community of writers, that is both engaging and
helpful. Writing is a solitary craft. I'm happy with that. I write my best
stuff when I am simply entertaining myself like a kid in a sandbox— piles of
dirt become castles, sticks are spaceships, ants are invading armies. My wife
is kind enough to let me play there. She only requires that I wash my hands
before eating. She doesn't particularly like my stuff, she prefers the bodice ripping romance of Bertrice Small. But I knew I was getting somewhere when I had her down on the floor laughing at my send off to the undead, "The DVLZ Do". She's not much use as a critic or editor.
Then the day comes when you get this absurd idea
that you'd like to try to publish. That's when you realize you need lots of
people—people who can see the blatant errors in spelling, grammar and
construction. More people who can tell you if your characters and plot are
working. Still more people to offer suggestions on how to achieve your dream.
When I finally admitted to myself that I wanted to
write erotica, I went searching for resources. The Erotic Readers and Writers
Association was the first or second item returned in the search. I clicked the
button and like Alice falling into the rabbit hole, I fell into a different
reality, full of helpful and supportive people, many mad as the Mad Hatter,
dedicated to advancement in the art of storytelling. There are many days when I
don't want to return to the real world.
I don't know what it's like to be an addict, but I
got a whiff of the experience the first time an editor said 'yes' to my
anthology submission. The idea that someone, a professional no-less, was
entertained by something I wrote, had me as high as I've been in many years.
Today, Spencer Dryden has more Facebook fiends than
the guy who adopted the pen name of the first drummer for the Jefferson
Airplane. Many have been friends in the truest sense—people who have helped me
without expectation of repayment, people who have listened without judging, people
who have rejoiced in my success and patted my hand during disappointment. If
there was more of that in the real world, maybe I wouldn't be such a
misanthrope.
So please feel free to 'like' Spencer Dryden and pass it along to your
ten thousand closest friends, then angels, unicorns, fairies, mermaids, shape
shifters, even zombies will shower you with blessings.
