One aspect of the writing life that I haven’t seen mentioned before is what I call the Silent Telegraph. It may be odd to think of silence as a method of communication, but where writers are concerned, it is one of the basic facts of life.

By the Silent Telegraph I mean a disruption in the usual cadence, if that’s the right word, that a writer has with an editor, an agent, a publisher, someone in the movie business, or anyone else that a writer deals with on a more or less constant basis.   The Telegraph comes on slowly, and for awhile you aren’t even aware that it is running, or sending its message.  A first, when the phone stops ringing, or more recently, when the in box of your email program becomes conspicuous by what is not there, you begin to feel the first sensation: it isn’t that you are worried, not yet, just mildly aware that for some reason or other you aren’t hearing anything.

And, of course, this is more prominent when some particular negotiation is in progress, a new book deal, for instance, or maybe a movie option, or an assignment for a magazine.   Still, as time goes by, and the silence grows, you begin to break the lack of noise into the varieties of silence.   Or, maybe it is better to say that you begin to wonder just how serious the silence is, or what it means.

The worst time, in my experience, for this silence, which grows, gets larger, becomes something like a hiss, is in the fall when the days are short and you are getting ready for winter.  And, at this time, your agent is showing a new book around.   Let’s say it is silent for two weeks, then three.   The days get shorter.  It is dark in the afternoon, and you have done your work for the day.   It is far too early to have a drink.   So, you sit near the telephone, or you keep your cell phone on when you go out to do an errand, and as you do this you go through the possibilities.  You have been rejected by A, but not B and C.   Or, when the Telegraph runs with a little more intensity, you think, all right, you have been rejected by A and B but probably not C.  The Telegraph then really begins to hum, and you find yourself saying, Shit.  It’s probably C, too.

And it isn’t only for new book deals, but other matters, too.  For instance, at a large trade publisher, I went through four editors on one book.  Or, I didn’t go through them, but the publisher did.   Four of them got fired.

For something like this the Telegraph runs the same way.   Well, you think, it’s been a while since I have heard from A.  I wonder what she is doing?  Must be busy.   Then the Telegraph thrums.  It gets more intense.  You listen to it each afternoon.    And then, when you are sure something is wrong, the phone rings.  It is A’s boss or the editor who has replaced A, and she tells you that A has left the publishing house, and that B, the new editor, is delighted to be working with you and that you should come to town to have lunch.    Then you hang up and sit there, the phone still warm in your hand, and think things over.

Of course, in this particular case, the Telegraph told me about the departure not only of A, but of B, C, and D.   The silence fills the house.   You know something is up.

In a way, it is part of the business, and I don’t think there is any malice in it, since a natural reason is behind it.  No one wants to give you bad news, since it is unpleasant to do so.   And given that this is the case, people are reluctant to pick up the phone and tell a writer that some disaster, large or small, has just taken place.

Still, from the writer’s point of view, one morning you wake up and hear that silence and wonder just what is going on.  This, I guess, is a sort of Zen and that Art of Communication.   Nothing said is something said.

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