by Unknown
Misty Massey
Christina, my job is a paycheck, honestly. I love working with the students and the books, and I have the most amazing principal to work for, so it’s a relatively pleasant place to be. I put forth my best effort every minute I’m at school, so it’s not as if I’m just lazing around. My principal badgers me on a fairly regular basis about going back to school to earn my Masters in Library Science and my certification. It makes me feel good, of course, to know she values me so highly, but I know how much time and work and money would have to go toward a graduate degree, and subsequently how the writing would suffer.
Things I Did Wrong
A.J. Hartley
A few weeks ago I was speaking to a Sisters in Crime meeting and I realized that my mini-autobiography had morphed into a series of bullets that might be titled Don’t Do This: A Writer’s Guide to Decades of Failure. As some of you will know, mine was a long road to getting published, and the gap between writing my first complete novel and getting one published was eight complete novels and a little over twenty years. It didn’t have to be that way, and I’d like to steer you through some of the mistakes I made in the hope that your road to publication will be shorter and faster. The result, I trust, will balance confessional blather about myself with stuff you can really use. I confess that some of what I will say here will be blindingly obvious to anyone who isn’t me, circa 1985.
Writing in a Vacuum.
No, I don’t mean drifting in the vastness of space (though it can feel like that). I mean writing by myself. I would start working on a project, hammer it out over a few months or so, polish it, and then send it out. I showed it to no-one but my girlfriend/fiancée/wife (remember we’re talking about a 20+ years span here), and maybe my parents. I had no beta readers, no critique group, no literary support network, no writer pals, no creative writing classes.
What that meant was that for all the help and encouragement I got from my family, I wasn’t getting any kind of constructive response from someone who saw me simply as a writer. My family’s thoughts were inevitably complicated by their feelings for me, so the first people who read my book who were NOT already invested in it being good, were the agents and editors to whom I sent it.
This is not a recipe for success. As we all know, rejection letters tend to be light on specifics, so learning about what’s wrong with your work this way is like hunting for the proverbial needle in a haystack. Most of the rejections ("Liked it, didn’t love it") told me nothing, so I kept on puttering away at the same thing, baffled and feeling like I was shooting in the dark, never really knowing if my next project was any better than the last one.
The fact that you are reading this essay at all suggests you already have me beat. Back in the eighties there were books on writing, but there wasn’t anything like this interactive medium (unless it was actual people sitting down together), a place like Magical Words where you can feel part of a community of shared interests. Not only did I not know how to create such a community (or find one), I didn’t even know what the value of such a thing was. But it’s worse than that. Because if someone had invited me to join a critique group, I almost certainly would have said no.
Some of that was a young writer’s arrogance: the surety that I basically knew what I was doing even if the powers-that-be in the publishing world had not recognized that yet. But more of it was the opposite: shyness and fear.
Many writers are private people. We take refuge in our heads and in the stories we build, stories invented largely for our own amusement. The prospect of sending them out into the world, of losing control of them and putting them in the harsh glare of Other People’s Opinion is, frankly, terrifying. To this day, I get a rush of panic and anxiety when I offer a new piece for someone to look at (including sympathetic readers like my family, friends, or agent). So it’s not surprising that I kept my work to myself, didn’t talk about it, didn’t ask other people things that might have helped me out, operating as if I might get published by stealth: telling no one until my face was plastered across the New York Review of Books.
I can’t imagine how much this slowed me down, but I know it did, and probably quite a lot. Even without formal instruction from which I might have learned basic principles, I missed out on the chance to get honest feedback, tips, bits of advice, and criticism coming simply from someone who was interested in whether the book worked as a book, not whether they thought they could sell it. This is a crucial distinction, because for years I was able to hide behind the old lie that my work was good but not marketable.
We know this one. We use it all the time. I still do when I produce something I can’t sell, and I know that sometimes—SOMETIMES—it is true.
But usually, it’s not.
Unless you are writing something truly experimental or generically very odd, there’s a market for it somewhere if it’s good. The trick is assessing that last bit: Is it good? We all know readers whose advice is shaky or can’t be trusted, that it’s marked by jealousy, resentment, or other factors which color their opinion. But we also know that there is no substitute for getting eyes on your work. I learned this the hard way. Writing is private. Publication isn’t. If you want your book to be something other than a file on your computer, if you want it out there where people can pick it up from a bookstore shelf, you have to share it with people you trust before sending it out. There’s no way round it. You have to swallow your pride, brace for impact, and learn. It’s the only way, and it may just help to get you in print a good deal faster than I did.
§§§
Carrie Ryan
Great advice! I also think that joining a critique group lets you see other people making similar mistakes that might be easier to spot because it’s not your own work so you’re not as close to it. I know that it was in judging writer contests that I realized what it meant to have a slow opening or be generic—these were all very well written entries but they helped me understand and recognize that gap between being able to write well and writing a publishable story.
But it did take me a while to feel comfortable sharing my own work. Now I go by the adage: I’d rather hear that it stinks from my critique partner than from my editor, and from my editor than from a reviewer or a reader.
Megan Haskell
Thank you for sharing A.J.! This is something that I’ve struggled with recently. I’ve been taking a writing course this summer, and I’ve loved hearing the feedback from the other students and the professor, even when it’s negative (masochistic? me? nah…). However, all that I’ve shared have been flash fiction pieces that we’ve written in class or other assignments. When it comes to my novel, I’m holding on to it like a life-preserver in the ocean. Part of this is because it isn’t finished and I know that I have a lot of revision work that needs to happen.
So my question is this: How early do you start to get feedback from family/friends, critique groups, and beta readers? And do you share the whole novel all at once, or a chapter at a time?
A.J. Hartley
Megan, this is tough and I’m sure you’ll get as many different pieces of advice as there are writers. I generally don’t share anything with anyone until the first draft is done and pretty clean (few beta readers are really good at treating a draft as a draft and not a finished product). BUT, there are good reasons to share much earlier than this, and lately my contracts have forced me to block out the entire manuscript in outline. I don’t really like doing this, but it forces me to clear up the basic shape of the story and that’s invaluable for seeing large issues of arc, rhythm and genre. I’d be wary of working a first novel to a high shine before showing it to anyone in case you start getting notes suggesting you need extensive revision. In outline or draft form it’s less of a problem if you start to hear a repeated observation that the book doesn’t get going till page 70 and you should probably cut everything before that point.
Many of my beta readers don’t want to see the thing in process: they want a true reader’s experience as
if they’ve just picked it up in a store. I’m confident enough now that I can do that and know that what I give them is at least in the ball park. Twenty years ago I should have been saying "I have an idea of a book about X: what do you think?" If this is your first book, I’d say start showing it (not sending it to agents or publishers) and see what people say. It might really help you in your revision/editing. That’s just my two-cents, of course. But if you DON’T share it with other people yet, have a reason other than fear.
Self-Determination
Faith Hunter
I’ve been looking into my own psyche lately. I’ve been looking inside, where the future of my writing life skulks, where my expectations prowl. Or slumber, maybe. What do I expect—what do I really believe will happen with my own writing future?
Do I really believe that I can write? (There lie dragons . . .) Do I really believe that I can build a growing audience? Do I really believe that I will earn a seven-figure advance someday? Do I really believe that I will be a bestseller someday? Do I really believe that I have a book inside me that will be like a tsunami on the reading world? Or do I believe that I will muddle about in the shallow waters of near-obscurity, make a few small splashing waves, and then sink below the surface of the publishing business, to be forgotten? What do I really believe about myself . . . ? And how does that belief shape my own writing future?
I’ve been asking my writing pals what they believed about their futures when they started out. And I’ve gotten some interesting answers, answers that point into the soul of us all.
One said, "I want to get another book published. That’s all. It’s always just one more book."
One said, "I’m hoping to be a bestseller in a couple more years."
One writer pal said, "I’m a firm mid-lister."
One said, "I’m in the middle of remaking myself from a mid-lister into who I really am. I’m going to be on Oprah soon. You watch."
I asked a bestseller writer buddy what she expected when she started out. And she said, "I knew I’d be at the top." It wasn’t arrogance or conceit. It was the most firm self-confidence I’ve ever seen. Wow. Just wow.
And suddenly I realized. This is what makes a long-time, successful writer. Unshakeable self-belief. And that understanding rocked me. Because I don’t have it. I am still trying to deal with what I learned that day. Still trying to see what I might do with that understanding that will/might/could change me inside and let me grow.
When I started this business, I had two images of myself and my future:
1. I’d write a book a year, making about $25,000 per book to satisfy my inner muse (who was a lot prettier in those days) and to supplement my income.
2. I’d write five books, build an audience, impress a high-placed editor, and then have a breakout book that would put me in the six-figure income area for twenty books or so, and then I’d retire.
Nowhere in there, in those expectations, was there a vision of myself as a bestseller with four feet of backlist shelf space in every bookstore in the nation. Nowhere in there was the possibility of fabulous success. Was I being sensible? Or have I . . . (deep breath) have I shackled myself?
I do not know. I do not know if I am master of my own vessel (USS Firm Mid-Lister) or if the market made me what I am and I flounder in the wake of others through no fault of my own. And I do not know if I can take the wheel of my own future in my hands and steer myself into new waters, into something fresh and exciting, bigger and better.
But I do know that in some arcane way, our beliefs shape and steer and guide and power us. And so, knowing that, I have to change my self-beliefs. I have to rework my own brain if I want to make it in this fast-changing business. My neurons have to be rewired for success. So, I peer into the depths of my own psyche and say, "Hey, you! What do you believe? Can you do it? Can you be a real writer? Can you envision a future of great things for yourself? Can you be a success?"
So far? A soft, hesitant . . . "Um . . . yeah? Um . . . Maybe?"
§§§
David B. Coe
This is a great essay, Faith. It touches on all the emotions with which I grapple these days as I sort through my professional expectations and the realities of my career path thus far. Wonderful stuff.
And yet, I’m troubled by your last paragraph. "Can you be a real writer?" "Can you be a success?" How do we define what either of those things is? In order to be a "real writer" do you have to be a best-seller with six figure advances? I reject that notion entirely. Do we define "being a success" solely in terms of money earned? I’m not sure I accept that, either. I’ve yet to have a bestseller or a six-figure advance. I know few writers who have had either. But I think that publishing a novel is success. I think that selling a short story is, too. The market is fickle. It values some books that I think are crap and dismisses others that I believe are brilliant. Is that the yardstick I want to use to gauge my own successes and failures?
I understand ambition; I’m ambitious myself. I understand want-ing the big contracts and the huge sales numbers. I’m not saying that we shouldn’t strive for those things. But I’ve read your work. I’ve seen Gwen and Faith Hunter filling shelf space in every corner of America. You are a terrific writer; a critically acclaimed writer; an award-winning writer; the author of how many books? Twenty? More? That’s success. That should be a source of pride. Not complacency, of course, but pride nevertheless. There are so many ways to measure success; I’d hate to think that money would be the one that you settle on as most important.
Faith Hunter
David, it is success. I’m not really denying that. (Okay, I am, but it’s one of those days where I am questioning myself, you know?) What I am gnawing on is more along the lines of, "Have I ham-stringed my own success by applying mental and spiritual reins?" Heck yes. I have to admit that. I have to face it head on. And, "What could I be writ-ing that is better, stronger, faster than a speeding bullet?"
And, "Do I want more? Am I capable of more?"
Not more books, I’m writing as fast as I can. But more . . . some-thing . . . Can I step it up? And if I step it up and let go of the reins, can I, will I, see a change in my book status? And most importantly: Do I care enough to let all that happen? How much do I want it? Did I ever want it at all?
Thank y’all. I am not depressed about this. I am soul searching, however (which usually results in a great book in about six months, BTW (laughing)).
Why Bother?
David B. Coe
When last we saw our intrepid author, she was wading into the Slog, the great morass of storytelling, character development, and worldbuilding that stretched to the imaginative horizon, keeping her from her ambitions. Armed only with a keyboard, a thesaurus, and her wits, she strode forth, prepared to face down the horrors which, according to legend, resided in this creative fen: the Minotaur of Narrative lying in wait at the end of a plotting cul-de-sac; the Hydra of Flat Prose that stalks her, looming over every passage, threatening to poison her tale with its noisome breath; the Charybdis of Datadump into which she might fall at any moment, never to be heard from again; and, of course, the dreaded Chimera of Incoherence, which constantly menaces her work, its fiery breath burning narrative bridges right and left. It is hard, dangerous work, and it’s a wonder that she even risks the fen in the first place.
Truly, it is a wonder. This essay is not so much a "How-To" piece as it is a "Why-do-we-do-this?" essay. All kidding aside, this is hard work. It’s discouraging, frustrating, maddening. Getting published at all is incredibly difficult; making a living at it is, for all but a few, next to impossible; making a fortune at it is nothing short of miraculous. It would be so easy simply to give up. Especially now, in the middle of the slog, as I call it. If ever there was a point in the process that would lead people just to chuck it, this is it. Here at Magical Words, we often fall back on the truism that we write because we love it, and that’s great. But at this stage in the process it would be easy to call upon the wisdom of that g
reat American philosopher, Keb Mo’, who said "That’s not love/Love don’t feel that bad . . ."
So, why bother?
Last night, my family and I went to see a University production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. It was a fine production—great costumes, sparse but effective sets and lighting, good acting; even the original music composed for the play worked well. But these were secondary. The writing was all. The interwoven narratives, the poetry, the humor; the mere fact that at four hundred fifteen years old, it still makes us laugh, it still speaks to us of love and friendship, rivalry and envy. (For A.J.’s sake, I will make no mention of the universality of the human condition, but I’m thinking about it. . . .)
Now, I’m no Shakespeare. No one knows that better than I do; and, forgive me for saying so, but you’re probably not Shakespeare reincarnate either. That’s okay. We don’t have to be in order for me to make my point. We are writers. This is what we do. Sometimes we do it because we love it. Sometimes we do it because not doing it is simply unthinkable. Sometimes we do it because we’ve started, and we refuse to quit and so the only thing to do is keep moving forward. Maybe, like A.J., we simply love the written word. Maybe, we’re driven by a story or a character or a world that we can’t get out of our heads. Every one of these is a valid response to "Why bother?"
