FollowActually, I originally wanted to use this blog time to write about my cynical view of the world of central Jersey and where Rutgers University fits into things; all meaning how I’m almost willing to wager up an extra kidney, that Rutgers and the Big Ten Conference decided to marry around a decade ago; after all, these kind of decisions, effecting the historic course of a major University for the next hundred years, are not made lightly or without precious timely years to implement and move towards acceptable standards. But I’ll stop now and leave those that thrive on alma mater things, hopefully, thoroughly titillated. Promises before going back on the campaign trail, to finish the Rutgers-Big Ten theory, including why a new hotel was needed for George Street in sleepy New Brunswick.(If I had money to invest, why not a hotel ready to book ahead because Michigan, Ohio State and Penn State are coming to town). Just when I thought I was free to move on to the real “author” topic, I get pulled back into this Rutgers-Big Ten talk.
On January 1, 2010, I officially became a published author, although I didn’t consider myself a writer, author, or anything different from what I’ve been the past thirty years (an eyeglass salesman) simply because that modicum of critique from within the hallowed halls of ivy, a real review of my words from a real book reviewer, never happened during the winters of writing ‘Vichy Water.’ A few weeks into January, the first review came in and I was suddenly a debut, emerging accomplished novelist and I joined the special world of authorship. I was the same man; nothing changed; no dramatic weight change or alopecia, rapid loss of hair. But something subtle happened to the world around. I was in a glass Mason jar, people looking in, perhaps through tinted distortive glass (so I’d like to think). I don’t feel different but it’s a brave new world of perception; of being a cardboard puzzle piece, fitting into to almost every piece scattered over the living room floor. Those meeting me for a first time (a puzzle piece, continuing the metaphor), after the obligatory handshake, eyebrows raised and mouth going oval, they’d exclaim, “So you’re an author. Tell me what you wrote.” A cousin communicated to another relative the other day, “Do you think we’ve had a genius all this time and never knew it?” There’s no genius in my cellular structure (I check all the time). You take all the words inside and put them together. But I’ve got a confession. It’s not the same recognition. An author means responsibility and being taken seriously. Somewhere, there’s a magic wand of socialization. People view me different. Quicker response time. Temptation exists to call a restaurant for reservations and say, “Calvin Schwartz. Author” And I get that special table for two near the fireplace. Selling eyeglasses never got a magazine to want to feature me in an issue. Sensitivity on my side of the Mason jar exists as well. In a social setting recently, interacting with agents and writers, I realized authors were in a special world of tuning forks, listening to vibrations, feeling and sensing, and needing to be aware of the entire world around us. Every day of my life now, there’s this serious responsibility of shoving as much information and as many words into my cerebral castle. I can’t take in enough. I started reading almost voraciously (I couldn’t wait to use this word). The old “anything I can get my hands on.” Of course I pick up my novel a few times a day and look at my name and drift into the wide world of out of body experience. Every day of my author’s life now is like being in Disneyworld, jumping into my skin and onto the ‘Back to the Future’ ride, shaking with glee and anticipation of adventure. I’ve gone back to the future, feeling like a kid, wondering why it took me so long to learn how to spell ‘ecstasy.’