Something to Prove (Whoever said talk is cheap never had to write dialogue)

A question often overlooked before starting any writing project, though tacitly understood and relevant to the task, is What am I trying to prove?

Certainly, hopes for literary credibility, dreams of commercial success, the establishment of name recognition sufficient to generate interest for future projects, money (of course), all exist at the outset. These serve as both cause and effect—the impetus to continue, the culmination of plotting and planning and sheer mental effort, the enormous amount of energy and patience required, the reason for doing the damn thing in the first place.

Rarely would one in some still, quiet hour, perhaps in those early waking moments before the sun fully blooms, with that first cup of coffee to repel the last vestiges of sleep, and embracing the calm of a new day, turn to mind and think—

What am I trying to prove?

For me, and admittedly this is a vanity, I have always sought uniqueness, much to my detriment and dissatisfaction. There is nothing particularly ennobling in such endeavors. To attract a readership beyond a single story, a writer clings to a genre, commits to a style, becomes more proficient, and creates consistency in the hope of building a following.

What am I trying to prove?

Craftsmanship, certainly, an affection for elliptical phraseology and rhythmic syntax, a sardonic worldview (oh yes), and the virtue of sentimentality (I can’t seem to help myself). Beyond this—and in my own defense uniqueness is not simply being different—to attain and adhere to a self-subscribed quality level.

What I have grasped in my simple, ignominious way, is that uniqueness requires not only a host of tenebrous, almost otherworldly qualities, but advocacy from people who recognize this distinction, and exists beyond your Granny saying what a special boy you are, and is, in fact, as remote as it is indecipherable. 

What am I trying to prove?

Several years ago, I wrote a short story about an imagined conversation between Jesus and Buddha in the afterlife—satire, mind you, though with a certain philosophical bent. I ultimately decided to employ dialogue only. I had several other stories, and set about writing them strictly in dialogue, just to see if I could, at least to my own satisfaction.

The result is my new book God on a Budget and other stories in dialogue. Who knows, maybe I’m onto something.

Still, I haven’t answered the question, and I suppose I should, if for no other reason than to articulate a purpose for such a purposeless exercise.

What am I trying to prove?

That in the effort to get it right, I have produced something unique. Granted, this is not qualitative assessment. This does not address a level of artistry or even soundness.

This simply means that I pulled it off and am (mainly) pleased with the outcome.

After all, we all have something to prove. Don’t we?