The fantasy of countless writers was realized earlier this month when Alexis Jenni, a 48-year-old high school biology teacher, won the Prix Goncourt, France’s top literary prize, for his novel L’art francais de la guerre (The French Art of War).
As reported in The Atlantic, Jenni said, “I didn’t even think that I would be published, so I could hardly dream of the Goncourt. I was a little resigned to anonymity.”
A “little resigned to anonymity” is the understated condition of most writers, of most all artists for that matter. Yet, at varying depths we all harbor our Walter Mitty-dreams. Mine involves a certain marquee between Broadway and 8th Avenue. It is heartening whenever that dream comes true for one of us. The Atlantic article goes on to discuss jobs that past and present writers have held to finance their scribbling (Kafka as legal secretary?).
To take the literary sect I know best, playwriting, there are 6,300 members of the Dramatists Guild, the national organization for playwrights and music theatre lyricists, book-writers and composers. Less than a handful make a living solely from playwriting. Those who live comfortably off their keyboards make their money in film or television, or, less directly, by teaching writing. Most of us have day jobs, like Jenni, or we somehow scrabble together enough to pay the rent and put food on the table.
Monsieur Jenni, distrusting the recognition brought by the Prix Goncourt, says he has no plans to give up his day job as a science teacher at Le Lycee Saint Marc in Lyon. A good writer and, with three children under his roof, a smart man.
