Egil sat down and put his shield at his feet. He was wearing a helmet and laid his sword across his knees, and now and again he would draw it half-way out of the scabbard, then thrust it back in. He sat upright, but with his head bowed low…. He wrinkled one eyebrow right down onto his cheek and raised the other up to the roots of his hair…. He refused to drink even when served, but just raised and lowered his eyebrows in turn.
King Athelstan was sitting in the high seat, with his sword laid across his knees too. And after they had been sitting there like that for a while, the king unsheathed his sword, took a fine, large ring from his arm and slipped it over the point of the sword, then stood up and handed it over the fire to Egil. Egil stood up, drew his sword and walked out onto the floor. He put his sword through the ring and pulled it towards him, then went back to his place. The king sat down in his high seat. When Egil sat down, he drew the ring onto his arm, and his brow went back to normal. He put down his sword and helmet and took the drinking horn that was served to him, and finished it. Then he spoke a verse….
The passage above comes from the Saga of Egil Skallagrimsson (from The Complete Sagas of Icelanders). It’s a rather famous scene, in which we get to observe some of the nuances of the ancient poet-king dynamic. Egil is considered the greatest poet (skald) in the world, and he’s well aware of it. Even at the court of Athelstan the Great of England, one of a skald’s A-list gigs, he feels entitled to a certain level of appreciation. At this point he doesn’t feel he’s been getting it, and his passive-aggressive show produces a mollifying response from the great king. Egil is a prima donna, and prima donnas must have their due.
All of this is only vaguely connected with my theme tonight, but it came to my mind as an illustration. My own case is that I don’t feel unrewarded. I feel rewarded in the very best way.
It came to me during my morning writing session today. There are few satisfactions in life to match that of reading something you’ve composed and being able to say, “You know, that’s pretty good. That’s what I’d like to read in a book myself.”
And I thought, what rewards do I have as a author? There’s the pleasure of seeing my work published (though I have to admit there’s less satisfaction in viewing an e-book than in holding a genuine printed volume. But I’ve had that pleasure too). There’s money – though my books have brought little of that. There’s fame – which has eluded me thus far. Has the king withheld my gold ring?
No, I realized. The work itself is my best reward. I know I’m writing this book for myself when I was twelve years old, desperately longing for a good Viking novel to read. And I think I’m getting the job done. No amount of money could buy that satisfaction.
Don’t get me wrong. I’ll take money and fame if they’re offered. But in a pinch this is enough.
Your column reminds me of the oft-mentioned exchange between Tolkien and Lewis in which Lewis says, Tollers, there isn’t enough around of the kind of thing we like to read. Let’s write some ourselves.
But yes, I wonder if many authors don’t have something like the feeling you mention, of wanting not so much to write, as to *have written*, a certain kind of writing, the kind of thing one liked to read or would have liked to read.