When fiction writer and longtime New Yorker editor William Maxwell was asked what made a great writer, he replied, "Deprivation." I've had this on my mind a good deal lately as I've gotten to know novelist Stephen Wright. He recently reviewed Mailer's latest novel for us. If you catch the review (on stands in mid January) it should be indication enough of Wright's skill, but if you need more evidence, his most recent novel, Amalgamation Polka, won the cover of The New York Times book review, the book-review industry's gold star.

Better still, he was blurbed by Godot, I mean Thomas Pynchon. Still, the novel sold only 4,000 copies. Admittedly, the title did him no favors. But what of his other novels? All three won raves: Don Delillo called Going Native a "slasher classic"; The New York Times said of M31: A Family Romance that "long after one is finished reading it, the book glows like a strange neon sign in the reader's mind"; and The Wall Street Journal claimed that Meditations in Green "takes ones breath away." No real sales for any of these either. I'm not speaking out of school here.  Wright would tell you himself he's baffled and you'll hear in his voice he feels robbed – not once but four times. And though I can't address whatever losses or disappointments he endured before becoming a novelist, surely he had some. Has it made him a better writer?  Could be, and because life gives out hard knocks more readily than it does miracles, rewards, even flattering remarks, it's a balm to think that suffering is productive or somehow enriching.  
 
Surely choosing to make things up for a living in a non-fiction-loving time or one that is leery of accounts that do not foster order, control or watchfulness is a lonely choice. Never mind the hours one must spend alone. Nonetheless legions elect to write fiction.  Box after box of unsolicited fiction submissions arriving at our offices confirm there are no shortage of aspiring writers, and would Stephen Wright's poor sales figures deter them? Probably not.  
 
As of September of this year, we decided to stop considering unsolicited work. After 50 plus years, we had to concede we no longer had the manpower to answer the demand properly and give the material its due. All that effort and especially hope sat and sat. But will this decision by our magazine deter anyone? Probably not. For those drawn to writing fiction, odds are they know something of life's hardships and lacks and have ways to navigate them—namely by picking up a pen or turning to their keyboard. I have a few thoughts for those who are either trying to create or are struggling with a writing life—all are borrowed. One is from John Fowles who wrote, "My whole interest is in the act of writing itself." This sentiment is echoed and refined by Robert Stone who said, "You've got to get into the process. The process is liberating. The process is good. You take it word by word. You take it day by day. And you have to not worry too much."

If I were to offer these words to Stephen Wright, I'm guessing he'd be tempted to invite me to perform a sex act on myself. So this last quote from Jules Renard is for him and anyone who has produced one fine or distinctive or memorable story or book after another with no pay-off apart from the whatever possibilities are built in to the process itself. "Writing is an occupation in which you have to keep proving your talent to those who have none." I offer this, fully understanding it's self-incriminating and wishing it were not so, wishing Wright's books were the bestsellers they deserve to be, wishing this was a nation of more discriminating readers – hell, of readers period. I can't bend reality, but one of the advantages of good fiction writing is that it can. For me, there is enormous consolation in that.