Woes of a writer

PAUL AUSTER was one described by the Tatler as "the only American writer under 50 with any true claim to greatness." Whether or not you agree with this accolade, and I certainly do not considering I can think of at least three other great American writers in that age bracket, there is no gainsaying the fact that Auster is a major talent.

Of his eight novels, I did not like only one, his last effort, about a dog, and I should think that says a lot about his talent. He is a quirky, thought-provoking writer who is as original as you get and I am completely addicted to his work. Which is why reread his memoir Hand to Mouth (Faber) when I was rummaging through my bookshelves last week to reacquaint myself with how Paul Auster the writer came to be.

The book is subtitled "A Chronicle of Early Failure" and this should give the reader a fair idea of what lies in store. In the classical tradition, the young Auster led a very tough life as a young man, on account of his refusal to compromise his writerly principles and take up regular paid employment. Instead he drifted from one short term job to the next odd job man on a decrepit oil tanker, translator of French verse, ghost writer, groundskeeper, caretaker, part time publishing dogsbody - making just enough money (and often not even that) to keep the wolf from the door. In his spare time he wrote - poems, plays, novels, essays, most of which did not get published.

Did he give up and crawl back to a regular job, of which he was lucky enough to be offered a few? Not at all. Despite the heavy toll it exacted (his marriage broke up, he had to depend on the kindness of friends) he kept at it. He tried his hand at inventing games in the hope of making home money. But it was not to be. The only game he invented, something called "Action Baseball" was never produced commercially, although it does form an appendix to this volume (one of the book's distinctions is that it has three of the longest appendices you will find anywhere, all of them the author's "failed" projects).

His stepfather died leaving him a small inheritance and some of the monetary pressure was eased. And then, lo and behold, he found a publisher, not a mainstream one, but a man who was trying to set himself up as a publisher. As with most small businesses, this one too soon ran out of money and folded up. Auster was back where he had begun, when he had dropped out of college to write.

He decided to give the writing business one last shot, and tried to see if any of the mainstream publishing houses would take on his novel. As he tells it:

"I started looking for an agent again, and this time I found the right one. She sent the novel to an editor at Avon Books, and three days later is was accepted. Just like that, in no time at all. They offered and advance of $2000, and I agreed to it. No haggling, no counteroffer, no tricky negotiations. I felt vindicated, and I didn't care about the details anymore. After splitting the advance with the original publisher (as per contract), I was left with $1000. Deduct the 10 per cent agent's commission, and I wound up making a grand total of $900. So much for writing books to make money. So much for selling out."

From then onwards there was no looking back. And I, for one, am delighted.

DAVID DAVIDAR

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