I Oughta Start Shouting
When I was in college, there was this guy who used to roam through the mall, shouting at the top of his lungs—he was sort of a notorious local figure. My friend told me about him, and I didn’t believe it until one day, I saw him myself. There he was, this ragged long haired thing, hurling Lord knows what out to no one in particular. It was impossible to tell what he was rambling about. He could have been ranting about shooting someone or reciting the words to his latest poem, for all I know, desperate for someone to listen. Was he a mad man? A criminal in the making? Or just a poor, misunderstood sap, a forgotten artist, whose time was long overdue?
A couple of weeks ago, an Ohio homeless man named Ted Williams got national attention after a homemade video of him showcasing his radio voice went viral. Within a day or two, the man was bombarded with job offers from everyone from Kraft foods to the Cleveland Cavaliers. He was haggled by every major news network for a spot, appeared on the Today show, was interview by Dr. Phil, and was reunited on national television with his mother, whom he hadn’t seen in 20 years. The media stuck their tails between their legs when the man went into rehab and was allegedly involved in some sort of altercation with his kids. He was the classic overnight success—but his five minutes of fame was just that. Or maybe not. He will probably come back in a year or two, write a bestseller, and go down in history. After all, we live in a time when shock value sells.
After the terrible tragedy in Arizona recently, I caught a news story on cnn.com that had published some of gunman Jared Loughner’s poetry. A madman, turned poet. Not only that, but a mad man, published. For all eternity. An instant audience because he decided to go haywire and shoot people.
Why? In an age where Snooki can write a bestseller, the rest of us writers—or anyone with a serious, viable skill—might be in trouble.
As a writer, I deal with rejection and the lack of measurable reward or feedback on my work every single day. It doesn’t really bother me, any more, if people don’t read my stuff, or if a publisher says, “No thanks.” But what does bother me is indifference—or worse, complete disregard. An agent, for example, who doesn’t even bother with so much as a form letter, in response. An editor who won’t even acknowledge receipt. It’s a tough business, I know—not for the thin-skinned. But seriously. What do I have to do to get noticed?
Can I have my five minutes, please? Without doing anything crazy, illegal, or stupid?
There’s a song I like on the album Pablo Honey by Radiohead that goes,
And the wise man say, I don’t want to hear your voice
And the thin man say, I don’t want to hear your voice
And they’re cursing me and they won’t let me be
And there’s nothing to say, nothing to do
Stop whispering, start shouting
Stop whispering, start shouting
Don’t want to hear my voice? Maybe I oughta start shouting.
