Andrew James sits in his living room, looking out the window. The muted noise of traffic on the road outside can be heard over the steady sound of the cooling system. He seems a man of contradiction: Appearing relaxed, yet exuding an air of tension; he wears a smile, while his eyes show a mind constantly at work.
Finally, he turns back and asks, "I'm sorry, what was the question?"
This is typical for him, according to his wife. His internal workings are constantly grinding away; stories, characters, scenarios and other such things are continuously being generated and stored for future use.
"What started you writing?"
He smiles again, almost turning to the window once more before correcting himself. "Almost got lost again. Sorry about that. I really can't remember what got me writing stories, but I remember it started with books I made out of stapling construction paper together. I was pretty young at the time. Maybe around eight or nine? I would use household objects and trace them onto each sheet of paper, and then turn these outlines into fantastical creatures from some other dimension. They each had names and backstories and vital statistics. At the end of the day, I remember presenting the book I'd finished rather proudly to my parents. It's been so long that I don't remember much more, but that's really how it began."
"Of course, if you mean why did I love and keep writing, that's a little different. I was a pretty lonely kid. I was small and scrawny and I was bullied constantly. I had my younger sisters, but I didn't have any real steady friends. Imagination became my world when I played, and when I learned how to write, I realized that I could put to paper what until then had only been in my head.
"As I grew older and the bullying got worse and more vicious, I stopped talking as much as I had." He chuckles. "Of course, my family might remember that part differently, I suppose!" His face grows serious once more. "But I did. I preferred writing to speaking, because I could say something on paper that I could never get away with saying in real life. If it was really bad, I could sneak the paper into the coal stove and burn it, so no one really ever knew. Most of the time, though, it was tucked away into a trapper keeper under my mattress. Those were sort of my diary, even before I understood what a diary was.
"I felt I couldn't really talk to my Dad about what I was going through, because his answer was always going to be the same. 'Be the bigger man,' or 'blessed are the peacemakers,' or something else that I had come to relate to quietly taking a beating. It frustrated me growing up, that my Dad couldn't or wouldn't stand up for me. I wanted a father who would teach me how to fight. What I didn't know until later that I had a father who, when I finally said something, met with parents. When I was older I ran into a childhood bully who apologized for his actions, and he told me about my Dad threatening legal action if he ever touched me again.
"My Mom was under so much stress with other things that I never felt that I could be completely honest with her about what I was going through. I'd tell her 'I got beat up again today,' but I wouldn't tell her 'So and so put my head on ground and kicked me twice in the forehead.' It just seemed like too much to put on her most times.
"I also had recurring nightmares of monsters and things in the dark doing bad things to me. I remember that at times these dreams were so real that when I woke up, I was too terrified to move in bed. Sometimes I'd get up enough courage to run to my parents' room, but that almost always ended with one or the other parent reminding me that dreams couldn't hurt me. It wasn't until much later, during therapy sessions, I realized that many of those were actually suppressed memories. Until then, those dreams and details went into my secret writing files.
"So that's really what kept me writing. Overall, I wrote because I was terrified of talking to crowds. I was scared of sharing everything with my parents. And I was afraid of being told that something was either all in my head, or an exaggeration, or something I just needed to deal with. So I wrote."
The image of this man, who is now extremely outspoken and unashamedly so, being quiet and afraid is startling. But perhaps that is why he seems to be so conflicted.
"Are you anxious or concerned about anything right now?"
He gives a curious look. "Do I seem anxious or concerned about something?"
"You seem conflicted."
He sighs. "I've had a fundraiser going to complete the publishing of Redimere Revealed for a little while now, and so far it has not gone so well. The total amount needed is significantly smaller, but there haven't been any donations."
James has tried crowdfunding before, and it didn't go very well then, either.
"What have you done to promote it?"
He begins counting on his fingers as he speaks. "I'm posting regularly on Facebook. I'm tweeting it regularly. I'm updating my crowdfunding site. I'm offering levels of giving with matching rewards, even though GoFundMe has done away with tiers. I've put together an instrumental soundtrack in three different formats for the novel." He sits back in the couch with a hard sigh. "I think because of that homeless guy scam, people are just afraid to give right now."
He's speaking of a recent revelation that a crowdfunding effort to benefit a helpful homeless man was nothing more than a wildly successful fraud. Something else about his statement is intriguing.
"What was that about an instrumental soundtrack?"
He wears a rueful grin as he answers. "I created a soundtrack for the novel. Each track's title gives a hint about where in the book it fits. I had three different formats for it. The regular soundtrack, the extended play, and the bonus content version. I had hoped that it would be a greater marketing tool than even offering character naming rights, but so far nothing has worked."
"So you composed a soundtrack? For your book?"
His grin widens at the obvious excitement. "Yes."
"Are you only offering it through your fundraiser?"
He looks at the ceiling. "I hadn't thought about it, but I might put the bonus version on my website if this latest fundraiser goes nowhere. No promises, though."
"One more question, if I may."
He checks the time on his phone. "Go for it."
"You've written numerous books. Apparently, you also have some musical talent."
"Seven albums and four standalone singles under the name RETS," he clarifies.
"So you've done all of this, and you live like this. Why?"
He nods his understanding.
His home is by no means run down, nor is it in a bad neighborhood. It is however a one bedroom apartment in a triplex, and his is a family of three. The family has one vehicle, a van that is eighteen years old. The open closet in the bedroom, through which one must walk to get to the bathroom, is full of mostly secondhand clothing. The wedding bands he and his wife wear are simple and fashioned from some kind of black ceramic or stone. The boots he wears today are worn out, and their furniture is mismatched. It is not the vision of success one might expect from a writer of his caliber.
"Well, frankly, I guess I'm just not that good a writer," he quips, before rubbing his face with both hands. Finally, he sits forward. "The fact of the matter is that as good as I may be, there are others better. There are others who have been writing for far longer, and they have amassed a greater fan base. Most successful writers have literary agents working for them who are able to sell their work to the highest bidder, and they can afford to write a dud or two.
"I'm a little fish in a very big ocean of literature. I recognize that. But every one of those writers had to pay their dues. J.K. Rowling, for instance, was living on state benefits before she saw her first success. Stephen King couldn't keep his phone on at the time that Carrie sold. Terry Goodkind made a living selling wildlife paintings and building cabinets before Wizard's First Rule was published. One of my favorite modern Christian authors, Frank Peretti, was working at a ski factory when he sold his first book.
"So," James runs a hand through his hair as he continues, "I guess what I'm saying is that talent doesn't guarantee success. I don't mean to sound like I've got a big head, but I'm living proof of this. At the same time, I try to stay positive. One day, I'll be able to buy a new car. One day, I'll be able to buy a house. And one day, I'll be able to remember these times and say that far from making me bitter, they made me better. If," he stops and corrects himself, "When I am successful, I want to be able to encourage new authors to keep at it. In spite of the hardships. In spite of the difficulties. In spite of the personal hurdles and struggles. Because in the end, I firmly believe, it will all be worth it."
