Bottle That Energy

I’m a writer and a stay-at-home dad, and lately I’ve noticed what I have in common with my son— we both have an unquenchable thirst for attention. Constantly, my three-year-old boy, Joey, pulls my hand towards him, or even grabs my chin, turning it, directing my gaze. He wants me to watch him or play make believe, superheroes, ninjas, guns, or maybe a board game, or a sport, always focusing himself as the center, the winner, and the champion. Funny that the overabundance of attention he craves, is the same thing I want for my writing.

It’s simple what a writer wants. I want attention for my work, and then lots more attention. Attention that surpasses the praise of family and dives into the realm of public opinion. Perhaps this need for attention is a relic of my childhood, or an instinct that all humans have. Narcissism takes the blame for the popularity of Facebook and all social media, but maybe not— what if we aren’t entirely vain, and sometimes we don’t care what we look like, we just want to be looked at.

When I’m submitting query letters and samples to agents, my biggest concern is whether they gave my work enough of their time, enough attention. Were they running behind that day and dumped me off with a form letter? If they really looked at me and gave me more time, wouldn’t they grow to love me? The frustrating part is I can’t physically grab their chin and force them to read my books. I can’t grab their hand and pull, only my words can captivate them.

So there’s my challenge, the challenge for all writers: with mere words on a page, we must emote the same unbridled energy as a three-year-old.

That is no easy task.

“Wish I could bottle his energy,” says every old lady every time I take Joe to the supermarket. Childhood energy is infamously unmatched: the relentless screaming, pacing, circling, running, shaking, and crying fits, the endless repetition, yelling and chanting of a single idea, the euphoric celebration of finally receiving that long awaited treat or gift.

Emotion spills out of kids so often that it often goes ignored. The parents, like literary agents, have a certain tolerance for anything. A child’s voice is a safe noise that easily blends into the background, going unintentionally unheard. But that child’s addiction for attention soon scales the wall of tolerance. They never quit. The child gets louder, more physical, using all their energy, every tactic they have until they ultimately acquire what they crave.

They get better at gaining attention, and so must I.