Unless otherwise noted, Copyright James C. Hess 2009. All Rights Reserved. Published by Thinking Rock Press, with written permission from the author.

BRICKS WITHOUT STRAW is a saying some times used to describe a pursuit conventional wisdom insists is impossible in its proposed execution, or simply unlikely to succeed.

Not one to put much faith in what passes for conventional wisdom these days, until recently I gave little notice to this particular utterance as presented. I knew its origins were biblical in nature, and I knew, within that context, what it meant. But until recent events transpired I didn't personally understand the true meaning of the phrase.

More on than revelation momentarily, but first, please allow the following digression:

As some readers of this effort know my professional writing career to date has been a curious one that has greatly strained the patience of more than a few fans and admirers, who, understandably, abandoned me at one time or another as a Writer because just when I found success as a scribe of horror or film criticism or comedy or "serious" fiction I disappeared from that particular literary environ, and reappeared on another, and just when I found success therein I disappeared again and reappeared elsewhere, or doublebacked and reappeared where I had appeared previously. All the while offering no warning of my antics forthcomiing or explanation of same.

For what it's worth, as a Reader I appreciate and share your frustration and justified aggravation as response to such things, because as a Reader I should be allowed the unrealistic expectation that a Writer whose work I admire and respect should consistently write the same thing again and again without exception, and I should be able to selfishly make this demand of said Writer without concern or consideration toward what it is they might want of their endeavor. What ego. What arrogance. What presumptive nonsense to think they should be allowed to flex their creative muscle and try their hand at something else. Something that is not what they are known for.

As a Reader I share in the outrage expressed when it is discovered a Writer of, say, science fiction, has been caught moonlighting as a writer of, oh, horror. Or worse: Literature that rivals the works of Dickens, Chaucer, Shakespeare or even Twain.

But. . . as a Writer, I can appreciate the response many a scribe evokes - often silently - when they receive a vitrolic screed from an offended fan of their work who takes them to task for wandering off the reservation or out of the ghetto or wherever it is a Writer should otherwise reside while penning another tome:

Bugger off.

As a Writer I want to tell off that fan or admirer of my work because I disappointed them because I failed to remain true and predictable in the work I produce. I want to tell off that fan or admirer who takes umbrage to my latest effort because it doesn't fit their exacting standards and expectations. You're a Writer of 'sci-fi' or horror or humor they hiss. What do you think you're doing, writing that. . . stuff? No one wants 'serious' fiction from YOU.

I want to tell off the fan or admirer of my work, suggesting they mind their own business. I want to tell them that if they think they know what's best for me they should trying do what I do, consistently.

I don't, of course. Instead, I attempt an explanation for my offense: It started out as a nice little humor piece. It did. But when the cat exploded after crawling into the clothes dryer I was emotionally compelled to give up writing a nice little humor piece and write a mystery. But I gave that up when the, uh, incident involving the bug zapper and the squirrel happened, and I was psychologically obliged to turn my attention to writing what resulted: High-tech horror.

Uh, yeah. That's happened. That's my defense, your honor.

So why did I write a review of the latest cinematic bomb featuring Jessica Simpson?

I told you: That's why I wrote what I did: High-tech horror.

Here ends the digression. I return you to the matter at hand: Bricks without straw - A pursuit conventional wisdom insists is impossible in its proposed execution, or simply unlikely to succeed.

Because 'they' say so.

A number of years ago I decided to try my hand at writing a travel article. I had read enough of them to believe doing so was easy work. Furthermore, I had been offered a handsome amount of money to write such an article. So it seemed like a good idea, at the time.

Travel writing is not easy work. My first two or three or four or five or six or seven or eight or nine or ten attempts at such an article all found their way to the shredder, and onward, to the compost bin. The more I wrote, under the guise of travel writing, the more I came to understand why it is so few people make a living from it. Travel writing is about narrative, form, style, tone, technique, and diplomacy.

My first attempt, for example, was sent to the editor who had requested it, and was met with a firm rebuke: Not a chance. If I published this I would be financially ruined.

My second attempt, I must confess, was hardly better. The same for the third, fourth, five, six, seventh, eighth, and nineth attempts.

And the suffering editor was ready to give up his job to become a sanitation worker, if for no other reason than to avoid writing like what I had produced.

It was my tenth attempt at travel writing that turned things around. Convinced at that point I was not going to succeed in this pursuit I decided to throw caution to the wind, and write whatever came to mind. What resulted was one part historical, one part travel writing, one part educational, one part entertainment, and one part simply me - humor Writer, horror Writer, Writer of 'serious' literature, etc.

Shortly after it was submitted I received an elated response from the editor. He didn't call it brilliant, but he found it to be to his liking, and immediately commissioned another article.

Which, I must report, was not published. At least not by the suffering editor.

So I assumed my new career as a travel Writer was at an end, and I turned my attention to writing a humor piece.

Having failed to mention to my six or so fans and admirers what I had done.

One of them, however, by means and methods not reveal, came across the travel article I had penned, and demanded explanation of it.

All right: She didn't make demands on me about it. She politely inquired after it, wanting to confirm I had written it.

I admitted I had.

Really, she replied. Well, you should write more, and if you're interested my husband's brother's second ex-wife's best friend is roommates with the assistant editor of a travel magazine - which she named.

I had written one travel article. A second would be a piece of cake.

It wasn't. No sooner had my travel article been placed with this travel magazine and a massive earthquake of sorts rocked the circumstances. The editor was fired, management reorganized the structure of the publication, numerous lawsuits ensued with charges of breech of contract, and my article was all but lost.

To make a long story somewhat shorter, I recovered my submission, and turned it over to a local publication where I lived.

Which promptly ceased publication.

To make a long story somewhat shorter, while the birthing pains of creativity persisted something happened:

A book.

A book I started writing several years ago. A book I stopped writing more than once because I didn't know how to write what I wanted to write. I knew what I wanted to say but I couldn't find the words to say it.

Then there was the matter of the scope of it. Every time I took to writing it again the scope got bigger and grander and more complex, which meant trimming and cutting and editing again and again to get to hold of what was happening.

What was happening was something I had not experienced before. The book, as I wrote it, was taking on a form I had not seen before, expressing dimensions in writing I had not known previously. The book, as I created it, was changing and transforming.

And so was I.

The more research I did for it, the more reading I did in relation to it, to more writing I did to produce, the more I came to understand the simple and the complex.

Of Life itself.

I came to the realization that each life is precious because it is unique, and it is because of the uniqueness that things happen and result - discoveries, developments in human existence, creations, destructions, wars, battles, births, death, just to name a few.

Understand: I knew all this previously, albeit superficially. It was only after undertaking this particular writing project in a determined fashion that my actual knowledge of such things came to true form.

From that came the resulting book, A LIFE'S TIME.

Another digression: Around the time I was finishing the first full draft of this book I was asked to describe it to a sales and marketing representative for a traditional publishing house.

Imagine, if you will, trying to explain to six blind sages that they really aren't groping an elephant but a large rock shaped like an elephant. That, basically, was the conversation that resulted:

S & M: I understand you are writing a book.

Me: I am.

S & M: What sort of book is it?

Me: Well, it's non-fiction.

S & M: Oh. I don't know that there's much of a market for that sort of thing.

Me: Oh? Well, anyway, it has a historical narrative -

S & M: Oh! Well, that might sell. Some copies, at least.

Me: Yes. As I was saying, it has a historical narrative, but it also has a subjective presentation to the overall text.

S & M: Oh! Confessional literature! That's always a big seller. Especially if it's juicy and naughty.

Me: (Pause) Riiiiight. The subjective presentation to the overall text comes of the personal nature of the book itself.

S & M: Self help? That should prove very successful, especially now that so many people are looking for help out of their circumstances.

Me: Ah. No. It's not a self-help book. If I had to describe that way I would suggest it was more spiritual.

S & M: Oh! Marvelous! Those sort of books always sell well.

The conversation went on like this for what seemed - at least to me - a very long time, until finally I had the opportunity to make an excuse to hang up.

My head still reeling, my thoughts still wobbling from that particular adventure in miscommunication and abuse at the hands of an undeniably hapless sort only interested in money, I paused in my work and gave consideration to what it was I was doing.

And why.

Why write a book in the first place? Beyond the desire to realize financial gain? Are books written nowadays merely for the pleasure and satisfaction the process provides, or not?

The majority of books written and published nowadays are done for easy cash. To suggest otherwise is to lie.

And it would be a lie to say that while writing this book I did not have thoughts of commerce in my head.

But I digress. The book is done. The book is readied for consumption by the masses.

The book - do with this what you will for whatever it may be worth - is already into its third printing.

And it has not officially been released.

I take pride in this particular fact. I take pride that I wrote this book. I take pride in the fact it has garnered interest. But I also take great pride in the fact it defied the odds, it negated the naysayers - that it is published.

That it stands as an example of bricks without straw.

Which brings me, by way of great puffery and long-windedness, to my point.

Yes: There is an actual point herein.

As I write this the world has turned inside-out, ass-to-teakettle, and beyond. I believe there are one or two persons who have actually managed to see, straight-on, their own backsides just before they plunge into warm darkness.

And there comes of this dispair. Great dispair. Wailing. Moaning. Howling. Finger-pointing. People are losing their homes. People are losing their jobs. Businesses are going under. Industries are collapsing.

All of which is unfortunate, because very little of it was necessary.

At the same time great opportunity exists. The opportunity to do the seemingly impossible.

Write and publish a book, for example. A book written not for monetary gain but because you want to, because you need to.

Because you can.

Embrace the impossible, and see what comes of it: Bricks without straw.

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