I don’t mean to say that people join writer’s workshops with the intention of eroding the self-confidence, not to mention the craft skills, of the other members. I do mean that people are not always aware of their own feelings and motivations. A person may truly believe he or she means nothing but the best for another writer, all the while subtly and unconsciously communicating something very different.
A writing friendship can begin as mutual support but not fare well when one writer’s career takes off and the other one’s doesn’t. We’re not supposed to feel jealous of another writer, especially a friend. But without self-awareness, it’s easy to slide into resentment. (“It’s not fair that he got published and I didn’t when my story is just as good.”)
Sometimes, resentment comes out in statements that undermine trust in the other writer’s judgment and work, pressure to go against natural strengths, for example, to change genres or aim for unreasonable markets (“Why are you wasting your time writing sword and sorcery when you should be writing steampunk?”)
Occasionally, envy will prompt a writer to try to manage the other’s career, even to act as a sort of agent. Gossip is a common way of venting frustration, damaging both reputations and trust. (“She only got that story published because she slept with the editor.”)
For me, it’s important to find people I can trust, both within the field and outside it. Sometimes I need a disinterested listener, one I know will hold whatever I say in confidence, so I can work out what my guts are telling me and how to deal with the situation. This helps me to recognize my own “warning signs” and develop a vocabulary of responses. I also need regular time with fellow writers, not only to chew over specific writing problems but for general communication-of-enthusiasm and mutual cheering-on. When I do this regularly, I am less apt to be drawn into those relationships that are unhealthy for me as a person and as a writer.
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Creative Jealousy
How many times have we heard someone say—or said ourselves—that we were jealous of a successful writer?
I have several problems with this. One is how destructive it is to our relationships, to our peace of mind, even to our creativity. It focuses our attention on something utterly beyond our control and puts enormous pressure on us to write for a certain result . . . instead of to write what is in our hearts, the very best and most authentic stories we can tell. By concentrating on another writer’s success as an indication of our own failure, we are comparing their “outsides”—what the world thinks of them—with our “insides”—how we see ourselves, We will never know what it is like to be them inside, to struggle with their doubts, their disappointments and self-inflicted agonies. All we see is the face they show to the world, and by judging them on that basis, we risk losing compassion not only for them but for ourselves.
It helps me to think of envy rather than jealousy. Envy is wishing I were like another person, that I too might receive something another person has. Jealousy is wanting that thing instead of them. It’s based on the notion of scarcity. In literary success, certainly, artificial measurements create and strengthen that illusion. After all, if the New York Times Bestseller list consists of x books, that’s all that will be included, regardless of quality. We get caught in the belief that there are only so many books that can be published and if someone else’s book gets picked, then there’s no room for ours. Ultimately, this may be true, but it’s not helpful to us as individuals to see the pie as limited in size.
This is one area where the Internet is indeed changing the game. I think we’re in a period of sorting-through wheat from chaff, that is, developing structures and processes to connect readers with the books they want to read. The old limitations of distribution and the budgets of publishers’ sales departments no longer apply. An eternal optimist, I like to think that eventually the hype and the gaming-the-Internet will give way to new ways for readers to find well-written, rewarding stories.
Even if we restrict our consideration to print publication, I think it’s much healthier to imagine the pie as expandable. On the scale of a single book sale or ten books or any number we ourselves are likely to be marketing at any one time, the more good books there are, the more we all benefit. I have found this attitude over and over again in the science fiction and fantasy community, where writers are enthusiastic readers and fans of one another’s work. I also find that when I can shift my attitude just a little from “there are not enough publishing slots for everyone, so that person has taken mine” to “Wow, another great book for me to enjoy!” I am much more likely to step away from resentful comparisons and value my own work, my own creative voice.
One of the high points of my early literary career was meeting Poul Anderson at one of Marion Zimmer Bradley’s “Fantasy Worlds” conventions. I found him standing alone at the reception for the guests and got up my nerve to introduce myself. He listened and then asked, with immense kindness and sincerity, “And what are you working on now?” He conveyed by tone and expression that he saw me not as a competitor but as a fellow writer of wonderful new stories for him to discover and enjoy. I want to be part of a community that offers that kind of support to one another — and it begins here, with me.
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Encountering Wannabee Writers
Somewhere on the intarwebs, I read: “Authors Write Today; Pretenders Write Tomorrow.” The implication is that if you are a real writer, you write all the time. Write as in, you deliver your thousand or five hundred or twenty-five hundred words, day in and day out. I think that’s balderdash: it works for some writers, but not everyone. Some successful authors write in maniacal spurts, putting in 16-hour days, drafting novels in a few weeks, and then going long periods of time without any word output but with intense, deep rejuvenation and development of creative ideas.
The second, and perhaps more important aspect of the quote is the implication that being a “wannabee,” a person who aspires to be a writer but never actually writes, is a bad thing. At best, a pathetic thing.
I am as likely as the next person to shower wannabees with advice on how to get started and stay motivated. I rarely pay attention to whether the advice is actually being solicited and whether it is helpful. I buy into the notion that this person should be other than the way he or she is, that wanting to write, dreaming about being a writer and talking endlessly about it, or pretending to be a writer, is unacceptable.
Sometimes, “wannabee” is a stage people pass through and either go forward to do the work of writing, or leave and go on to dream about something else. Other people stay with wanting/dreaming/talking. It seems to be sufficient for their emotional needs, and that means they’re getting something of value from it. A sense of self-importance? Of belonging to the “cabal of writers?” Trying out daydreams of different possibilities? Getting attention from well-meaning, helpful authors?
I think there can be great value in daydreaming, even about things we will never do.
For most of my life, I’ve dreamt about being a ballerina. I had a few years of dance when I was a child, and then again as a young adult, but never the rigorous training necessary for professional performance (nor do I have a suitable body type for ballet). I think my life has been enriched by imagining myself dancing on stage, leaping and pirouetting to glorious music. It’s a way of living a different life, seeing the world through the lens of a different art. I think the same might be true for people who want to write: what it’s about is not necessarily wanting to actually spend endless hours learning the craft of handling prose, but imagining themselves as different people, of belonging to a different world, perhaps of escaping from the restrictions of the way their own lives have played out.
If there is value in dreaming and talking about wanting to write, I also wonder who it hurts? Does wanting take the place of actually doing it? (Some writers won’t discuss their works-in-progress because doing so dissipates the build-up of creative energy.) Is that so
bad a thing? Does imagining yourself a successful author drain off so much of your energy and ambition that keeps you in a dead-end job? If so, is the best way out of that situation to be shamed about never actually writing? Or does the aspiration provide a small but continuous impetus to change the situation?
I suspect that the worst thing about wannabees is that they are annoying. Their conversation has the superficial semblance of a writerly discussion without any substance. They dominate the conversation with their own story ideas (often in excruciating detail) and take up about as much of a professional writer’s time as they can. I’ve been cornered by wannabees, politely listening and offering suggestions, only to realize that the point of the conversation was not a request for encouragement or tips on how to get started, but a captive audience for the wannabee’s oration. The problem, as I see it now that I am calmer, is not that this person has never written a word, but that this person has presented one type of interaction under the guise of another. I’ve gotten myself trapped into being a captive listener (and one that conveys status because I am a Published Author) under false pretenses. So of course I’m irritated.
Most of us who have been around fans with poor social skills figure out how to gracefully detach ourselves from prolonged interactions. We learn how to be courteous while maintaining appropriate professional social boundaries. But because so many of us love talking about writing and have been encouraged by those writers who have gone before us, we are particularly vulnerable to the desire to “pay forward” to newer writers. We don’t have an accurate perception of the “wannabee game,” which is not about learning writing craft but sharing enthusiasm for a daydream.
Once we recognize that’s what is going on, we can acknowledge the other person’s aspirations without getting drawn into a tedious and frustrating attempt to teach someone whose goal is not to learn.
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The Lady (Actual and Honorary) Writers’ Lunch
Writing is a lonely business. Well, maybe if you write screenplays as part of a committee, it isn’t, but for most of us, the process involves endless hours with just us and the words on the page. No wonder we end up talking to our characters and listening when they talk back. There’s a listing for that in the DSM-IV.
One of my secret weapons against the perils of isolation is the writer’s lunch. When I lived in Los Angeles, I joined my first critique group, an eclectic mix of science fiction and fantasy writers, mystery writers, and mainstream “literary” writers, with a core of Clarion and UCLA Advanced Writing class graduates. One of the other science fiction writers and I started going to lunch once a month or so. The group meetings were tightly focused on critiquing manuscripts and there wasn’t much time for schmoozing about general writing issues, nor was the group atmosphere hospitable to science fiction shop talk. I quickly learned the value of having a writing buddy, someone to cheer me on, help me choose markets, analyze the personalities of editors, commiserate with about rejections (and try to interpret those letters), and more.
Kay Kenyon put it like this:
Don’t make the mistake of thinking that to be a writer you mostly have to hunker down and write. You do, of course, have to write. But you also have to survive the slings and arrows of a very tough business. For this, there is nothing like a friend.
If possible, a very close friend. A best pal can anchor you in the writing life, providing:
Advice and problem-solving.
A friendly ear when one hits bottom.
Someone who’ll applaud you without (too much) envy when a success comes.
A companion for conferences and signings.
A mirror to your own writing life, to give perspective.
Source of laughs, gossip, and wisdom.
Dependable guerrilla marketing and cross-promotions with you.
My first writing buddy and I eventually went our separate ways, but by then I’d found other like-minded writers. A few of these were writers I admired tremendously and were much further along in their careers than I was. From them I learned new ways of looking at the business, and also that I’d been judging my own progress far too harshly. I learned that even successful authors have crises of confidence, think their work is dreadful but know how to revise like maniacs, get rejected, and get dropped by agents or publishers. And then they pick themselves up, switch genres, change names, and get right back into the game. So when some of those things happened to me, I knew I wasn’t the only one and I knew it was possible to recover, reinvent myself, and go on.
After I moved to the redwoods, I did a lot less of this sort of networking. For one thing, there were far fewer writers in this rural area, although for a time I did attend a very small beginner’s group, mostly to hear people talk about writing. I did a certain amount of schmoozing online, as time permitted, because I was now working full time as a single mom. Also, I was beginning the Darkover collaborations, and for various reasons it wasn’t appropriate to workshop them. I missed that face-to-face camaraderie.
When attending Baycon, the closest regional science fiction and fantasy convention, I hooked up with a new writer friend. I loved what she had to say and we instantly hit it off. Both of us had the same sense of give-and-take, of listening and advising, of asking questions and sharing experience. Before long, we’d figured out a half-way point from our homes and set up a lunch date. So was born The Lady Writers’ Lunch.
The name, Lady Writer’s Lunch, is a play on the Lady Writer’s Commune. Once when I was feeling discouraged and anxious about my financial future, a dear friend (also a writer) said, “If worse comes to worst, we can pool our Social Security checks, rent an old house in the country, and set up a little old lady writers’ commune.” I laughed so hard, I cried, and the image of writers supporting one another has stayed with me.
My new writing buddy and I wrestled through story planning, plot and character problems, getting an agent, pulling a project from a publisher, balancing writing in more than one genre, how to write with kids at home, how to write through tragedy, how to use social media and keep it from eating our lives. (We’ve found that IM can serve well for moment of support or just a “Hey, I’ve finished a scene!” “Hooray!”) From time to time, we’d include others, and the group has gradually grown, averaging about four. Right now we’ve got a male writer, too. The joke is that we’ve made him an Honorary Lady.
One of the gifts of such a group is not the support I receive from it, but the honor and joy of watching someone else come into her own as an artist, to celebrate her achievements. It’s the opposite of Schadenfreude—it’s taking immense pleasure and pride in the success of someone you have come to care about.
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Mentoring
People ask me if Marion Zimmer Bradley was my mentor, or they simply assume she was. Mentoring is a term that’s thrown around a lot these days, and I often wonder what it really means. So I looked up the definition and found:
1. a wise and trusted counselor or teacher;
2. an influential senior sponsor or supporter.
The definition gives me four essential qualifying relationships: counselor, teacher, sponsor, or supporter. That covers a whole lot of territory. Half the science fiction/fantasy community would go on my list, either as mentors or mentees. I need a narrower definition.
Its seems to me that mentoring, as the term is currently used, goes beyond “support” and instruction. It involves advising a younger writer and shaping that writer’s career. This function was once served by editors and agents; in some cases, it still is. But most aspiring writers find themselves adrift in unknown territory, where the rules are nebulous and constantly changing, and every writing blog shrieks out advice.
We human beings need, if not security itself, then the illusion of it. Someone’s got to know how it works, right? In terms of the writing itself, there are people who’ve figured out a thing or two. Some of them teach classes, and others will critique specific manusc
ripts. But publishing is changing so rapidly and in so many unanticipated directions that anyone who says they know the secret is selling you something. A newbie with good market instincts (c.f., Amanda Hocking) is as likely to meet with spectacular success as someone with forty hardcover novels in print. In other words, all bets are off when it comes to publishing “guidance.”
What about mentoring, then? I think we need to soften—or broaden—the definition. The old model of wise-old-counselor-authority must give way to mutual sharing of experience and opinion in an environment of respect and encouragement. Which brings me back to Marion Zimmer Bradley. One of the most satisfying (if occasionally terrifying) aspects of our relationship was that from very early on, she treated me like a peer. Certainly, she had things to say about my writing when it was clumsy and ill-though-out. Rather emphatic things. But she never advised me about where to submit what or what I should be writing next, how to publicize my work, what conventions to go to, or whom to introduce myself to. She always talked to me as if I were a competent person, a writer with my own dreams and artistic vision who just happened to have fewer years of publishing than she did.
Over the years, I’ve had the privilege of extending the same respect to writers with less experience, just as Marion did to me. I meet regularly with a friend, an immensely talented writer near the beginning of her career. I love hearing about her current project and being able to vent about the frustrations in mine. Am I her mentor? Is she mine? Or are we each sharing our different strengths, our fears, our enthusiasm?
Marion was my friend, my editor, and my colleague. She encouraged me. She loved my work. I admired her tremendously and will always be grateful and honored by her confidence in me. Was she my mentor?
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