We, the writers who are about to die, salute you

I have stepped on this battlefield before.  These sands dark with the blood of those who came before me.  The air is still fresh with sweat and toil- sounds of anguish, despair, triumph rise around me.  A crowd of thousands, eyes watching, eager for their bloodsport.  I stand tall, defiant, eyeing the emperors in their box- the senators in their stands, the common folk rabble rousing all around.  I lift my sword and speak.  "We, the writers who are about to die, salute you!"

So it feels today in the world of publishing, of writing, but then again, how has it been any different to those who came before or will come after?  We are here not by our own choice, but by a passion, that insatiable hunger.  Gladiators might have sought glory, and so do writers and we face very similar, almost insurmountable challenges.   Winning favor with those publishers (emperors) in the box, or those agents (Senators) in the stands and especially the crowd (readers) is no easy feat.  We have to know how to walk, how to talk, how to wield our weapon of writing.  Strike hard, strike the heart, draw the blood, quick decisive- yielding only to their desire.

Our enemies of course, are fellow gladiator writers   We spar, one against the other, vying for attention, for affection. Our criticism is our sword, our self-worth a shield.  We clothe ourselves in the armor of words and wield them just the same as weapons.

 If it is not the writers, then it is the beasts of the arena, our own writing that we must face.  These are wild untameable forces that are unleashed upon us to the joy of fellow gladiators and the crowd.  Those beasts can maul and tear just as much as the sword can, our armor of paper and ink easily yields to the doubt of our own words.

The history says, that once in a while, a gladiator was given a wooden sword by an emperor, in due diligence of service and honor of worth.  This signified and end to their servitude, a release from the bloody arena.  Writers don't have this proverbial weapon or way out.  While we may withdraw from writing, it remains like a fire in our veins that can't be put out.  We are proverbial slaves to the craft, chained to the arena.

It is a very bloody business, this writing, and like gladiators, you see very few who succeed. Our bodies usually are bruised and broken long before that, we are slain, or we fight on.  Once in a great while though, one gladiator bests the odds, bests the rest, and oh how the crowd swells in his or her presence.  The rumbling roar, that trembling earth, it shakes the foundations of the soul! How can others, waiting in the pits for their chance in the arena deny it?  They have a chance, surely, for the same glory!

Perhaps they do, perhaps they don't.  Only the crowd, the gods, can say.