Guys, I’m sorry. My brain is a big smooth billiard ball inside my noggin. I’m pooped. A big in-depth post about writing today? Forget it. Instead, I’m going to give you a Bulleted List. Because a List is what I do when I’m too tired to tango, you know.
Five Guilty (Book) Pleasures
You read that right. Five books I love, that I feel a little bit guilty when I read. Maybe because they’re pulpy, maybe because I enjoy them so much…maybe for no good reason. They’re not quite Cheeto reads, but they’re still guilty pleasures.
* Stephen King’s It You know, it just doesn’t get any better than this monster. I really think this is King at the top of his game, even if I stop reading the moment Bill puts Audra on the bicycle. For me, this read is all about the Losers growing up, and I love every minute of it, even the terrifying parts. You know, it probably says something if this is one of my comfort reads. I’m just not quite sure WHAT it says.
* Nancy Price’s Sleeping With the Enemy Forget that silly movie with Julia Roberts. The book is seven different flavors of awesome. I think I love it for some of the same reasons I love Frankie & Johnny–not so much for the main characters as for the glimpses of life that go on around them, and the characterizations of the secondary and tertiary people in the story.
* Charles Bukowski’s Factotum On nights when I can’t sleep, Bukowski helps. Yes, the book is about the adventures of a misogynistic, alcoholic, ugly, and emotionally stunted individual. It is also one of the most searingly honest looks at poverty and wage slavery around. And even though I hate Bukowski’s attitude toward women, I also think he was terrifically talented as an honest writer. Oh, and Post Office kicks major ass too.
* LJ Smith’s Forbidden Game series I love LJ Smith’s YA novels, specifically the Forbidden Game and the Dark Visions series. I loved them like candy and read them over and over again. Her Vampire Diaries series is enjoying a resurgence, but it didn’t set me on fire the way the other two did.
* Last but not least in any way, Peter Hoeg’s Smilla’s Sense of Snow, quite frankly one of the most beautiful books I’ve ever read. From the very beginning (I can quote bits of the opening chapter from memory and get a chill each time I do) to its inexorable conclusion, to everything in between–it’s just gorgeous, and Smilla herself is one of the best female characters in fiction. Hoeg’s other stuff hasn’t really impressed me the way Smilla has, but I keep coming back to this book over and over again–and, like White Oleander, I buy copies to give to people.
There you have it, five of my guilty pleasures. Some of them are books that I enjoy and luxuriate in so much it feels, well, sinful. (There’s the Puritan in me struggling against the chains of reasonable hedonism. I like to sip a mint mojito while I watch that struggle.) Others are books that just feel like eating junk food, but won’t make me feel slightly queasy afterward. (Much better than junk food.) And all of them, I think, are worth a try.
Two quick things today, because there is a certain birthday party I must be prepared for. It’s not anyone’s birthday, but we’ve scheduled the party today, which works out well for all concerned.
Right now I’m reading John Ajvide Lindqvist’s Let the Right One In, the book the Tribeca-award-winning movie is based on. The premise is good, the story is tightly-interwoven and slow-paced but well done. There are things I don’t like about the book itself. Some of them are translation things, things that you can’t avoid with a book that’s been brought out of another language. Some of the others are stylistic, like the author’s apparent love affair with ellipses. I use too many ellipses myself–my beta has to ruthlessly step on their heads lest they breed–and I understand Lindqvist was trying to capture the way people really talk. That’s the trouble with dialogue. You have to walk that line between how you know people actually talk, with all the ums, ahs, and the things left unsaid, and balance that against what dialogue needs to be, a revealing and unfolding within the story.
It’s a hard act.
Which brings me to the intentional mistake. After you’ve been writing for a while (I want to say ten thousand hours, because I’ve read Outliers recently too, but maybe it’s between five and eight thousand) you start seeing the mistakes a little differently. Once you have the basics down and begin to have a good solid grasp of craft, then you can start breaking the rules.
Just like in life, breaking the rules to break them is a stupid kid’s game with unintended consequences. Knowing the rules and breaking them to effect is something else entirely. Stephen King talks about this in On Writing, one of the only two writing books I will ever recommend.
I am willing to put up with what I see as Lindqvist’s mistakes in this book because he has vouched in other ways that he knows the rules and he’s breaking them for a reason. The rest of the book is good enough that I can overlook the ellipses. There is a lesson in this. Readers are very forgiving if you give them a reason to be. Don’t abuse their trust, and they will follow you down the dark road of a book.
The other thing I want to talk about today is truth. Lindqvist’s book is not for the faint of heart or weak of stomach. Some of the main characters are children, but it would never be published as a Young Adult novel.
As a writer getting into YA now, I’m running up against some of the conventions of the genre. Well, not exactly conventions. I am running up against the laudable adult urge to protect the young, and the not-so-laudable urge to censor what is said to them.
In my house, we have a “reach it and read it” policy. If you can reach it, you can read it. If you can’t reach it–get a stepstool! I do not believe in censoring my childrens’ experience with the written word. Are there things I wish they wouldn’t read? You betcha. Do I put those books out of reach?
I do not.
Instead, I keep track of what the kids are reading, and I talk to them about it. The conversations are alternately funny (like when Astronomy Girl ran across a fade-to-black sex scene in a book and asked me what “orgasm” meant) and terrifying, like when the UnSullen was reading Food of the Gods and started asking me about hallucinogens.
Ah, the joy of parenting.
In each case I firmly believe in telling the truth in the straightest, most age-appropriate, and simplest way possible. This is, I think, the best policy. (Obviously, or I wouldn’t be doing it.) The more armed with simple knowledge my young oes are, the less danger there is of them doing something stupid. I mean, we all have lapses in judgment. That is not the exclusive province of the young.
But one is far less likely to have a stupid lapse in judgment if one has been calmly given straight answers. And kids who get straight answers, who know they can go to an adult and ask difficult, ticklish questions, are far more likely to check in when something happens they’re unsure of. Check in, that is, before the situation becomes an unholy tangle.
The best way to protect the young, then, happens to be not censoring the information given to them so much. Kids are smart and they love to learn (until the public school/jungle system beats it out of them, but that’s another blog post). They want to ask adults questions, and they want straight answers. A kid who doesn’t feel alone and adrift is a kid who is going to talk to someone before they go and do something silly, at least most of the time. Age-appropriate doesn’t have to mean “complete blackout of information”.
This is why I’m feeling okay and not so okay about my forays into YA. On the one hand, I feel like I have something of value to impart, a story to share with younger readers. On the other hand, dealing with a lot of forces who want kids kept in the dark about a lot of things–sex, drug use, violence, abuse–for a variety of reasons, whether to “protect” them or because of an adult’s profound discomfort with kids knowing about the darker things in life…well, it gets wearying. The fear in the publishing industry of being “too edgy” and setting off some of the more conservative elements in our society is immense. The writer gets asked to change things, to dial it back and not be so direct. Sometimes it’s necessary, sometimes it’s not.
There’s a fine line to walk there, too. You need to know when you’re too attached to something that doesn’t really move the story along. Conversely, you need to not give in when someone is asking you to bullshit for the sake of selling more books or not pissing someone off. The two are not mutually exclusive, and they’re hard to tell apart.
Telling the truth in this way is difficult. It’s dangerous. But I think it’s worth it. My kids are worth the truth. I think every kid out there is. It doesn’t mean I have to force the knowledge of the darker side of the world on them, but it does mean that I have a trust (I would go so far as to call it sacred) to tell the truth when I’m asked, and when the occasion calls for it.
Since I’m currently moving like a little old lady (I’m in the body-aches section of the Cold From Hell) this Friday’s writing post is going to be shorter. I poked through the Ask A Dame questions and none of them really set me on fire, though a few of them did give me springboards into other things to think about. But I’m probably going to blaze my own path today.
Like that surprises you, right?
So, here’s three things I’ve found out about this career. Your mileage may vary, of course. Ready? Okay.
Getting published might cost you a “friend”. The instant I got published, some people decided they didn’t want to be around me anymore. I agonized over it and tried to make it better until the Muffin told me flat-out it wasn’t me. Success (of any stripe) is threatening to the people who don’t want to work for it–people who expect it to be handed to them. (I still thought it was me for a long time, though. Before I got a little wiser.)
It was with great surprise and a sneaking sense of relief that I read about someone else’s exact same experience on an author loop the other day. The recollection involved a “friend” getting nasty and knocking someone who had just joyfully made it into print as a result of years of backbreaking work. The writer who had gotten published beat herself up over it and felt terrible for months until she realized it wasn’t her. This is, by the way, part of why I feel the way I do about “writing” groups.
I’m not saying that every friend who falls away is jealous of one’s success. I’m just saying, it happens. It’s happened to a lot of writers. Some people think that success for one person means nothing for everyone else–a zero-sum game. I don’t happen to think it is. My friends getting published means more connections for me (and publishing is such an incestuous little business, those connections are GOLD) and a reason to break out the chianti and celebrate. It’s awesome, and if I’m a little envious, well, then it’s a reason for me to find the discipline and means to work harder. And feel grateful that my friends are so awesome they provide me with motivation. Nuff said.
An agent is not a panacea. Getting an agent is a big step, but it’s not ALL you need to do. In fact, getting an agent means the stakes are higher–one needs to produce and act like an adult, or one won’t get invited back. The agent is there to handle business so you can concentrate on writing.
An agent is not a foolproof path to the NYT Bestseller List. An agent is a help and a refuge in times of contract negotiation (God bless my agent, who puts up with my frantic calls during That Time) but s/he cannot write the damn books for you, and cannot make you look like less of an ass if you do your editor wrong. It’s all up to you.
Just like it always was.
Do not get involved in Internet imbroglios. Don’t pile on during huge Internet arguments even if you have an opinion. (The last big SF/F fandom blowup was a perfect example of something that could have been a great discussion destroyed by high emotion, nasty behavior, and different brands of entitlement on both sides.) If you feel the urge to respond to a negative review, DON’T. Just don’t. Get used to letting things go on the Internet.
A lot of people behave badly on the Internet because of perceived anonymity. Still others (and part of the first group) behave badly because the distance between their physical body and what they’re typing feels so large. It feels like there’s no consequences. But there are. There are consequences to Internet imbroglios. Think very hard about what you want out in the open.
The Internet is not ubiquitous. It just feels like it is to people on it. On the other hand, it’s becoming a useful tool for people to dig up dirt with. Don’t make it easy for the dirt to be dug, don’t give people ammunition. You don’t need the aggravation; it takes time away from writing. The Internet is already a big timesuck for a lot of writers. It’s a tool, and a wonderful one–but like any power tool, it needs to be used with caution. It can give you a wonderful time if used wisely, and it can give you a huge effing pain if it’s not.
All right, chickadees. That’s it from me today. I’ve got to get back to revisions on the YA. I have this scene with a girl crawling on a slate roof and a boathouse meeting interrupted (I think) be werewolves to get down. No rest for the wicked, eh?
I am still thinking about that epublishing post, guys. It might be done next week, if I’m not in the wilds of Novel Revision Deathmarch. This Friday’s writing post is brought to you by Reader A. C., who wrote me last week with the question:
How do you shut off the fear of being judged? I feel like if I was to release my writing to the world I would wake up every night in a cold sweat thinking “Oh my god, people are reading what I wrote and judging me!”
Which is really a very good question. This is the single biggest block to a lot of writers submitting their work. A lot of the anxiety stems from conflating judgment of your work with judgment and rejection of you. The rest comes from that old bugaboo, the Inner Critic.
Get used to it, because this never goes away. One’s method of dealing with it gets refined, but the anxiety over judgment and rejection is a Basic Human Fear, and it does not go away. We are cooperative creatures, and that anxiety over rejection is one component that helps us be cooperative instead of narrowly self-interested to a degree that would jeopardize our survival as a species. (I know this is a laughably simplistic view of a complex social-sciences issue. Bear with me.)
You as a writer will never get used to being rejected. At least, I never have, and no writer I’ve ever spoken to has. There’s always the heart-in-mouth panic when the agent doesn’t return a call, the nail-biting when the editor has the manuscript. Writing is something performed essentially in solitude–even if there are other people in the room, even if you are collaborating, there is still those moments of just you and the words on the page, and that’s IT. You have no measure of whether or not it’s good except your own, initially, and we are taught not to trust our own judgment on this level in a hundred little ways every day. The delayed-gratification aspect of writing–months or even years until something is accepted or sees print–pours fuel on the flames. Workshops and critique groups, well, we all know how I feel about those. Then there are reviews, and fan/hate mail, and that particular brand of hell known as bad Amazon reviews…
I struggle to think of a career that is more perfectly designed to turn a reasonably-adjusted human being into a f!cking neurotic. I really can’t think of one. (Politics doesn’t count; people are neurotics before they go into politics.)
We’ve got this anxiety. It’s not going to go away. So let’s pull an Einstein. Instead of trying to figure out why the speed of light is what it is, Einstein just took it as a constant and went on trying to answer questions around it. We all know the anxiety is there, so let’s talk about what to do about it.
My advice here basically boils down to three simple words.
Do it anyway.
If you want to be a writer, if you want to get published, you can’t afford to sit around wailing or to be crippled by that anxiety. Look, I can tell you the worst thing that’s going to happen. Brace yourself, it’s right here.
The worst thing that can happen is you get rejection slips. Everyone gets rejection slips. It’s a piece of paper with someone’s opinion on it. Big deal. So is the newspaper and a billboard. The opinion may be backed up by something, may not. But in the end it is only a piece of paper.
It is up to you to start a fire with it.
Slight side note: Yes, this piece of paper means you haven’t sold your work. If you’re lucky, it has a piece of personal feedback on it. There are stages to rejection just like everything else, and a personal note on a rejection letter is a step up. But a lot of writers shoot themselves in the foot by not taking those personal notes seriously. If an editor is sending out fifty rejection slips a day (and some do) a personal note is GOLD. It means they took time to go ABOVE AND BEYOND, and to tell you the thing that stopped them taking your story, or offered encouragement because you’re close but not quite there yet. Plenty of new writers don’t understand what a personal rejection note means and they get discouraged. It’s one of the last gates before acceptance.
All right, back on target. Here’s the thing: you have to find a way to make that anxiety a spur to be better. You have to find the way to turn the anxiety around so it’s working FOR you instead of bleeding off energy.
To be absolutely, honestly truthful…my way is sheer stubbornness. You don’t like it? You don’t? Well, I’m gonna show YOU! I’m gonna get so good, I’m gonna work so hard, that I’m gonna be able to laugh in your FACE! Yeah! HOW DO YOU LIKE THEM APPLES? It’s the same reflex that got me through my childhood, high school, boyfriends with quick tempers and quicker fists, and every other setback since. It’s getting knocked to the floor six times…and getting up seven, because you’re too stupid-dumb-stubborn to know when to quit.
It’s not elegant and it’s not pretty, but it gets me through the rejection-anxiety. Other writers use the anxiety in different ways, but always to bring themselves back to the page. The chances of getting something accepted for publication go up astronomically when you actually consistently produce work. They go up even more when you listen to the rejection and keep writing. They go up even more when you listen to the personalized rejection slips and keep writing.
Are you noting the theme here? The only way through this is to put your head down and keep writing. Find the way to put that anxiety in the traces to pull your plow. Otherwise, it will run around inside your head breaking dishes and making a nuisance of itself. Once you get it harnessed, once you figure out your way around it, it works as hard as the demon it is. But now it’s working for you instead of against you.
If there was an easier way, someone would have found it by now. That someone would be mega-rich and wouldn’t tell the secret anyway. So, we have to work with what we have.
And there’s a funny thing about the process of using the anxiety instead of letting it use you. The bravery or stubbornness or what-have-you that you find to get you through it starts cropping up in other areas of your life. Sooner or later it proves useful elsewhere.
If nothing else, that’s a reason to keep writing too.
I can’t give you a magic pill to make the anxiety go away. I can tell you that you’re not alone. And I can tell you something I learned in dance class. It’s easy to be invisible in dance class, because everyone else is so worried about where their hands and feet are, they’re not looking at how big your ass is.
In the end, someone judging you on your writing, or making personal statements about you on the strength (or not) of your writing, is only making a statement about themselves. (And not a nice one.) We’re all afraid of what we write “opening the kimono” and telling people about our fears, showing them the way to hurt us. This is not a reason to stop writing. This is even more of a reason to tell the truth, to find your way around that anxiety, and to shame the Devil, as the saying goes.
Nobody whose opinion you need to be worried about is going to judge you personally, the way you’re afraid of, on your writing. I can’t be any clearer than that. But the anxiety over if someone might is actually a gift. If you can find out how to harness it inside your head and make it work to get you on the page every day, to tell the truth and take your chances, to spit in the eye of Destiny and spin the roulette wheel…
…then, my friends, your success is only a matter of time.
Now go get it.
 I am using the word “anxiety” instead of fear because I believe it’s more precise. Fear is a survival mechanism. Anxiety is a social mechanism. I agree with Gavin de Becker that there is a huge difference.
A writer’s life is made up of largely arbitrary goals. As in, I will submit ___ stories, to ___ presses, and I will give myself ___ months to finish that novel. The goals that come from outside–the publisher’s deadline, or the revisions deadline, and so on so forth, might as well be arbitrary, but you the writer ARE consulted about them and expected to speak up about your needs so you can turn in a quality product.
Setting goals, revising them, and living with them is what every successful professional writer does. Setting your own schedule may sound like an awesomely sweet deal…until you actually start doing it. All of a sudden the responsibility for it rests nowhere but with you. Some people can ignore that and procrastinate all day. Others can’t, and it becomes something to flog oneself with in the absence of productive work. Most of us fall somewhere in between on that continuum, or alternate.
Small confession time: I used to swear by just the timer, and thought it was a bit silly to use wordcount as a goal. That was back before I had actual deadlines; it was in the phase of my writing life where I was just looking to produce, nothing more. (You may or may not be amused to know I refer to it as “my throat-clearing phase”.)
A kitchen timer is great for the throat-clearing phase and beyond. I know I’ve mentioned it before, but here are the things that a cheap kitchen timer can do for your writing. (I bought four of this kind, for various uses around the house. I also love these little timers from Ikea, but they don’t seem to sell them online. Quelle disastre!)
*A timer focuses your attention. In our time-conscious culture, a ticking timer cuts away a lot of distraction and engages a reflexive focusing of attention.
*A timer sends a signal to others. In other words, I am serious about this. I can’t count the number of times I’ve said, “When that timer rings I’m all yours for a little while. Until then, leave me be. (This works for husbands, children, friends–unless someone is throwing up, bleeding, or dying, the timer rules.)
*A timer makes it easier to be consistent. Ten or fifteen minutes a day, consistently, will do more for your writing than long stretches of neglect and weekend-warrior spells of however many hours. The name of this game is consistency.
*A timer forces you to prioritize. Your day is not so busy you cannot spend fifteen minutes writing. That fifteen can turn into twenty or thirty once you’re in the groove and have actually sat down and taken the trouble to put your hands on the keyboard. Having the actual, physical timer sitting there has guilt-tripped me into writing many a time.
Professional (or would-be professional) writers are working against a vast cultural current that says writing is “easy” and “less important, a luxury” because it is creative work. And somehow a lot of Speshul Snowflakes hear the “creative” and completely disregard the “work” part of the equation. How many times has someone said to me, “I always thought someday when got time I’d write a novel…”
I am always tempted to reply, “Yeah, what do you do? You’re a dentist/brain surgeon/IT whiz? I’ve always thought that someday when I had time, I’d come into your office and do fillings/neurosurgery/IT. Because, you know, it’s the same fucking thing, right? Can’t be too hard if you’re doing it.”
I haven’t said it yet, but by God, am I ever tempted. This is work, people. Getting paid for it is work too.
And now that I have by-Goshen professional deadlines and a fair handle on my creative process, I find I’ve shifted away from the timer and toward wordcount as my arbitrary goal of choice.
Wordcount is tricky. My usual goal is no less than a thousand words a day, but typically I run between two and four K. That, to me, is a good day’s work. I have the regular six to eight K days during the end of a novel phase when things are coming together, and once in a blue moon a memorable 10K day will come along and run through me like bad moonshine. Those days are nice because I’m so completely sunk in the story it never feels like work while I’m doing it, but they’re not so nice because it destroys my brain until I fall into bed and think, gee, I really should have eaten today…and I should have gone to the loo, too. And taken a shower.
I’ve had the 200 word days, and the 500 word days. Those suck like gigantic sucking things, but they usually occur because of crisis in other parts of my life–ill children, hospital visits, things like that. On those days the timer comes out and it’s usually all I can do to sit still long enough to get SOME wordage out.
There are people who have issues with the wordcount goal. A lot of them will ask, How do you know the words are any good?
My reply to that is, that’s not my job. That’s the Muse’s job. My job is to show up and write. Worrying about whether or not it’s good enough in the just-write-zero-draft stage is like shooting yourself in the kneecap to prepare for a marathon. The point is to get the words OUT so you can have something to trim and tweak. Books can be fixed. A blank page, however, is still a blank page at the end of the day. After the throat-clearing phase, you have to just put your head down and work through stuff. Getting better will come with consistent practice, just like playing a musical instrument.
Consistent practice will not turn you into a Perlman or a Gaiman. But it will make you a better writer and astronomically up your chances of getting published, which in turn ups your chances of making a living at this thing.
Another objection I hear to wordcount is that whatever count you set yourself (perhaps in response to a published author giving advice?) may be unreachable and hence, will actually stop people from writing. This is heard a lot from Speshul Snowflakes who desperately want to avoid the act of consistent writing and practical advice leading from or to such an act.
Look, if 1K doesn’t work for you, 500 might. 250 might. Setting the goal high for the day and not getting there is okay. Not writing at all is not. Life happens, and nobody understands that better than the self-employed professional. Setting goals is an art–breaking a big goal (getting published) into smaller, manageable goals (developing a writing schedule, sticking to it, producing chapters, producing a manuscript, learning grammar and usage and applying it to said manuscript, submitting over and over again, working on new manuscript…get the picture?) and setting daily goals is part of that art. You want a goal big enough to spur you on to make some progress, but small enough that you don’t throw up your hands in despair after beating your head on a brick wall. Like any skill (and goal-setting is a life skill), practice is key, and consistent practice makes you better.
I have to be honest here. (Big surprise, I know.) All the well-adjusted professional writers who have good careers that I personally know set themselves goals, and I don’t know of a single one who doesn’t use wordcount as a metric. They may use other metrics, but wordcount is a professional’s goal. It’s easily measurable, gives you an idea of where you are in a short story/longer work, and functions as a great measurement during the zero draft stage. (Revisions are something else. Heh. Aren’t they, though. Snort.)
The last objection I hear frequently to wordcount is that if you have to rip up a couple scenes by the roots and lose wordcount, you might get so discouraged you don’t go back to the story. This relates to the “what if the words are the wrong ones” above, and it relates more closely to the “what if I’m just blocked and I’m trying too hard and I damage something by sticking to my wordcount?”
And I have to say, oh, please. If you’re going to get “discouraged” enough to stop when you have to rip a couple scenes out and you lose a few thousand words, writing is so not the career for you. If you’re going to use “blocked” as an excuse, writing is probably not the career for you. I do not believe in writer’s block.
There are times when I get turned around, and false starts, and having to rip out parts of stories and jam other parts in and ARGH is just something that happens. Every career has bad patches and tasks one would rather not do. That is why this is work, and if you are willing to put up with those tasks and do them in a reasonable fashion your chances of getting paid to do this work increases exponentially.
I would much rather the words pour out smoothly, in a stream of genius that doesn’t need editing or revision and that editors will beat a path to my door to make me huge offers on. And while I’m dreaming, I’d really like a pony and a rich lover who lives only to buy me presents, too.
But it’s here on the ground with rent to pay and deadlines to meet that a writer lives. Wordcount and timers are tools that can help you meet those deadlines, whether they’re self-set or set by an outside force. Like any tools, they have their uses and they can cut if used improperly. But with elementary precautions and reasonable goals set, they can also make your work easier.
And making a job a little easier is sometimes the difference between making a living…and not.
Over and out.
 As in, runs through you quick and leaves you with a pain. Thank you, Dorothy Allison.
Well, it’s Friday again. I don’t have a lot of time today–a short story came back with revisions I’ve got to eyeball and the new Watcher novel is heating up. So, I’m going to give you three things I wish new writers knew.
When I say “new writer” I don’t necessarily mean teenager/young person. I mean someone new to writing every day, someone just starting out. John Scalzi did his 10 Things Teenage Writers Should Know, which I by and large agree with. (And I won’t lie, I always get a slight sense of gratification reading where he says one should write every day.) But the “new” writer is not necessarily, well, young.
I am not sure whether it’s better to come to writing while you’re young and you think you know everything, or when you’re older and you’ve had the sh!t kicked out of you a few times and you think you know How Life Works, which is just about the same mental reflex. (Though vastly more useful.) There’s something to be said for pure exuberant youth, and there’s something to be said for the calluses of experience on the bum of maturity. (Or something.) But whether you’re young or old, there’s things I think every new writer could benefit from.
* Accept that your stuff is going to suck. Everyone’s stuff sucks when they first start out no matter how old they are. Just because you’re verbally fast or fluent doesn’t mean you’ll be fast and fluent on the page; you will not be automatically fresh and iconoclastic when you’re young any more than you will be automatically experienced as an old hack when you’re older. Every writer starts out sucking. It’s our gods-given gift.
With young folk starting out writing, I see a lot of, “I’m new and SPECIAL and you just don’t understand!” With older writers, I see a lot of “How hard can this be? I’ve been a success at other things!” Both are…well, not true. New does not equal better, I understand because I was new and speshul once too. And there is a special circle of professional hell reserved for people who think this job is so easy you can just sit down and squeeze out a novel like squeezing a pimple. It is not simple. This is a complex task, and like any complex task, IT TAKES TIME TO MASTER.
When you’re just starting out learning any complex skill set, you’re going to suck. Relax and take the suck for what it is–a gift. That’s right, it’s a bloody gift. Once you accept that your work will suck at first, you have automatically created the necessary precondition for it getting better. If you refuse to accept that new writing, zero drafts, etc., are going to be an unholy mess, there is no reason for you to think about ways to make anything better and the work will remain in stasis…as an unholy mess. That’s not good if you want to make a living at writing, or even if you want to get published consistently.
* Common sense and business sense are your best friends. They are also surprisingly similar. Yog’s Law and basic common and business sense will help you have a career instead of a boondoggle. With a plethora of author’s weblogs, publisher’s weblogs, and several other sites available to the public online, as well as the Writer’s Market and places like Preditors & Editors, basic business/common sense about writing has never been so accessible. You can learn from other people’s mistakes all over the Internet–and not just about writing either. I can tell you several fandom and internet wanks have made me very wary, providing amusement as well as the lesson of “Jesus Christ, I don’t ever want to be in that position…”
Treat writing like a job with professional consequences and perks, and you will be in demand among editors. Given a choice between a prima donna with incandescent prose and an easy-to-work-with professional with a solid product that is not so incandescent, editors will largely choose the professional even if the story is less of a heartbreaking work of staggering genius. Editors are people too, and they like dealing with reasonable people instead of flakes and fruits. Be reasonable, professional, and consistent, and thou shalt reap the rewards tenfold.
I have to note here that the proportion of new writers on the young and old sides of the spectrum who violate this rule is roughly the same. X amount of new young writers implode/never get published because it’s not about the writing, for them–it’s about some kind of weird, twisted emotional jolt or need in another area of their life. X amount of new old writers do the same thing. You learn to spot them a mile away at conventions or critique group meetings.
Don’t be them.
* Read, read, read. I am amazed by new writers who confide in me that they “don’t read” but they expect to produce a readable work. Omnivorous reading provides grist for your artistic mill and a thousand little tiny lessons you just can’t get any other way. Lessons about pacing, voice, word choice, structure, what works and what doesn’t on the page. Reading gives you a range of fine gradations to your basic tools of grammar and structure.
Reading a lot will initially set you on fire with trying to write in someone else’s voice. Books that affect you strongly will have an effect on your own writing. This is a phase every new writer goes through, and there is only one cure: writing and reading more. Get it out of your system before you start submitting. Your editors will thank you, and when they do, that is a good sign.
Don’t worry about your work always sounding like someone else’s. Sooner (if you keep writing on a consistent schedule) or later (if you lay about and don’t write as much) you will discover your own voice naturally, and things you read will no longer affect it as much. The period of imitation is necessary and natural for developing your own creative style. Don’t try to avoid it, and don’t get stuck in it. Just recognize it as a normal phase and enjoy it while it lasts. And when it goes, enjoy finding your own voice.
I could go on and on, but I’ve got actual work to do today. No rest for the weary and wicked, eh? Still, I love this job. I wouldn’t want to do anything else.
Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to the Deadline Dames, Friday Lili edition. We’ve been talking about deadlines this week, and I don’t know that I can possibly add to what the ladies before me have said.
But I’m going to give it the old college try. You knew I would, after all.
I actually (get the rocks and rotten tomatoes ready) like deadlines. They’re comforting. In the first place, a deadline means I’ve sold and promised to deliver a piece of work. This means I get paid, and if I get paid my kids eat. (Sometimes after a year of work and waiting, to be sure. But that’s another blog post.) So the deadline is like a security blanket for me.
That security blanket is along the lines of being in a shark cage, eyeing a Great White and wondering if I’ve cut myself shaving that morning. It’d be a lot worse without the cage, right?
Right. But I have a deep dark secret I’m going to share with you.
I always “pad” my deadlines. That is, I ask for more time than I think I need. There is no harm in asking, and that way I can arrange the deadlines the way I like them–far enough out that I don’t ever have to turn in a rushed job. I get nervous when I get within a month of a deadline. Really nervous. If I’m not turning things in “early” I start stressing out.
They’re not ever going to ask me to write for them again. I’m close to deadline. I can’t do this. I just can’t. It’s within a month. I know I only have four words more to go but what if they’re the most important four words of the book and I fail and my children starve and the sun goes out and it’s all my FAULT?
You know, the regular kind of worries that go with a creative life. I don’t say they’re rational, I just say they happen.
Part of making this creative life a paying proposition is taking a hard look at what you need to consistently produce. I need that extra little bit of time to fool myself into thinking I’m early, because I do better work when I’m not freaking out. And seriously, when publication schedules are done a year in advance, me asking for a month more than I think I need isn’t a big deal. It’s more like creative insurance. This way I am rarely late.
I also have to have my agent say “no” for me (and TO me) or I’d drown in a pile of deadlines. I want to please, you see. I want to please my editors so badly that sometimes I would agree to things that would work me down to a bare nub of myself, leaving me a burned-out, broken husk.
This is not what I want. The name of my game is consistency, and keeping the engine inside my head well-cared-for so it can continue to turn over and feed my kids. Really, most of my professional writing life turns out to hinge on that one simple priority. As well as getting a few chuckles along the way for my own personal gratification…but that’s another blog post.
This is yet another reason why a good agent is worth so much more than that fifteen percent. The agent’s priority is a business priority. He or she can make those decisions based on solid business sense that a writer may not be able to, because of the emotional connection a writer has to his or her product. Lots of “new” writers make inappropriate business decisions–and pay for them.
I asked my agent once if it mattered that I was asking for more time than I needed to finish a book. “Are you kidding?” she replied. An extra month is no dealbreaker. (An extra year might be. And really, if you’ve gotten to the point where you need that extra year, you’ve most probably got an agent and your agent should be taking care of this for you.)
But Lili, I hear plenty of my Friday readers saying. I’m not even published yet. I don’t have an agent. Why are you bothering talking about this?
Because deadlines are not just for the agented writer. They are also for the writer just starting out who thinks they might want to make a living at this crazy game.
Any time you have a job, you have tasks you need to get done by a certain time. Writing is no different. If you cannot set yourself a deadline and stick to it, you are probably not going to get far in the writing profession.
The editor is not going to come to my house with a brickbat and MAKE me write. The editor might ask for the advance back or just not take my book if I turn out to be an utter flakewad. This is a consequence, and no less dire for it being delayed. The consequence of not learning to set yourself deadlines as a new writer can be never getting published.
Some “writers” are okay with that. I’m not. I mean, hey, if you want to, that’s okay. But it doesn’t work for me. My kids have this need to eat, you see…and so do I. I’ve been trying to break myself of the habit, but no luck so far. I just like food too much. And I get all cranky when I’m hungry. (The first three letters of “diet” are a WARNING. I’m just sayin’.)
In fact, I’d go so far as to say that any creative career requires even more stringent self-motivation and the ability to set oneself harsher deadlines than most other careers. Consistently producing high-quality work (i.e., work people will pay for) in an industry that has such delayed gratification (and paychecks), when the only person it comes down to is you…well, it’s not for the faint of heart. In a writing career, there is no room for the person who wants to depend on Someone Else to provide the pin to stick yourself in the bum with–in other words, to provide motivation to get moving and DO. In the end, every deadline comes down to you, you, and you alone. It’s a hard place to be, rattling that shark cage and watching that monster as it edges closer.
But I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.
And now for the contest! The bad news is: I don’t have books to give away right now. The good news? Comment on this entry by midnight PST on Saturday, January 24. A random winner from those comments will get to choose two items from Japhrimel’s Corner. I’ll send you those items for FREE. And really, a coffee mug saying “Oh yes, I CAN kill you twice?” Everyone needs one. So comment away!