We Are the Champions

Yamada_BTG_cover-V06b-PrimeEven as I started thinking about this subject, I had to flash back on a classic George Carlin routine: “My needs aren’t being met!” The answer to which was: “Then get fewer needs.”

We try. In some ways the tools of being a writer are some of the simplest for any avocation you can name. Most of our tools are internal, so no stocked shop, power tools, grinders, wrenches…just time, space, paper and pen. Which is, of course, rubbish, and you can see the flaws right away. I mean, sure, you can write with a pen and paper, but when it comes time to actually do something useful with what you’ve written, at the very minimum you’re going to need a way to produce typed copy. In theory a working typewriter will do, but in practice you’re generally talking about a computer and email. Perseverance is a matter of personality and just how long one can bash your head against a brick wall, but basic functioning as a working writer is another matter. There are things required. So that got me thinking about what writers really need, as opposed to, say, what we want. Continue reading

I Can Do That, or “How is a Writer Like a Guitar Player?”

As I’ve mentioned here before, I’m a beginning guitar player. But there’s an aspect of this musical adventure that I haven’t mentioned before, and I do think this simple fact needs to be acknowledged—as a guitar player, I suck. A reader might be forgiven at this point for observing the obvious—“You’re a beginner. Of course you suck.” Sorry, no, it goes far beyond lack of practice and experience. While I’ve always loved music, I discovered early on that I have little natural aptitude for making it. If there’s a musical gene, it does not run in my family and I for sure don’t have it. Yet here I am taking up guitar and massacring “Smoke on the Water” like any beginning fourteen year old (and yes, they still do). Only, of course, I’m a looong way from fourteen, when such things might be considered part of the normal course of events. There’s nothing normal or natural about what I’m doing. So why am I doing it?

Because I’m a writer. Continue reading

Have a Little Faith, Will Ya?

Feeling dogmatic this morning, so avoid if you ain’t in the mood. Time again I hear two classic questions about writing and submitting stories, most recently on another board– how do you know when something is good enough to send to markets? How do you know when it’s time to take a story out of circulation and trunk it?

Considering how self-evident those answers are, I should be amazed that people keep asking them, and yet I can understand the frustration. The true answers may be obvious, but they’re next to impossible for a beginner to apply, by definition. It makes sense that they keep looking for easier, more relevant to their current state of development answers. Unfortunately, I don’t think there are any. Continue reading

The Downside of Persistence

We’ve all heard the classic view of persistence as a virtue when it comes to writing and I’m certainly not going to be contrarian there. Show me a writer with a little talent and a lot of persistence and one with talent bordering on genius who lacks the ability to stick with anything for long, and I know which one I’d bet on.             

That said, what we almost never talk about is the downside. You hear about “Oh, So and So’s book was rejected 45 times before it was published or “Whatzherface wrote for fifteen years before she sold her first story.” Anecdotes abound. Heck, I’m a walking anecdote: I made my first professional sale in 1980 but didn’t make another until 1993. Tell me that sort of thing won’t bang your confidence like a steel drum. Eventual success — any success, even minimal — is greeted like the natural ending to your average morality play. Virtue triumphant.

So. That’s what we hear. What we don’t hear are the ones like: “John Doe Tenacious wrote every day for forty years. Everything he wrote was rejected multiple times. He self-published a few things that went nowhere,  and he died of a heart attack at the age of sixty. They took his files to the landfill when they cleared out the house and sold his computer for scrap.” Forty years and all of it gone… including the forty years. I’ll guarantee you there are a lot more John Does out there than either So and Sos or Whatzherfaces.

So what’s my point other than being a party-pooper? I have a couple, actually. Let’s start with the obvious one, and I’m a long way from being the first to make it–when it comes to writing Nobody Frigging Knows.

There are people who believe differently. I’ve been told more than once and quite forcefully that “Anyone can have a career as a fiction writer; it doesn’t take any special gifts beyond a little imagination and work.” Simply put–they’re wrong. It also takes one other thing, and this is crucial–it takes the ability to improve. Some people, for whatever reason, just don’t have that. They will never be able to see the flaws in their own work that turns writing into the self-refining and correcting process it needs to be. They can spend their entire working lives rewriting the same basic story, and they’re never going to get any better. Yet even if we accept the premise that anyone can learn to write it is still quite likely that any single individual who takes up writing can, with dedication, hard work, and persistence, wind up spending years working at their craft with absolutely nothing tangible to show for it when the Reaper puts a check by their name and calls time.

There are no guarantees, period, and while almost every hopeful writer will say that they understand that, almost none of them really believes in their heart of hearts that it applies to them. So what’s the deal? “Abandon All Hope, Ye Who Enter”? Not even close. Still, like any other major life decision, try to understand what you’re doing. Recognize that, however a writing career works out, there are trade-offs. Think of all the time you’re going to be writing. Think of all the time you’re not going to be spending with family and loved ones. Think of those near and dear to you with a legitimate claim on your attention who will — not “may,” will— be shortchanged over the years. Realize that some will understand and some won’t, and that no one, not even another writer, will understand all the time. Recognize what you’re giving up, what you’re risking, and be prepared for the consequences. The Muse is big on accountability and what you do actually matters.

Which brings me finally to my second point. I am certainly not saying “Don’t write.” I’m saying if you must write, do it for the right reasons. Only you’ll know what they are for you specifically, but be absolutely clear about this. In my case I write because I enjoy it and I’m a happier, healthier, saner person when I’m writing. I answered this question for myself a long time ago and if you haven’t done that yet you need to, and darn quick; this is your life we’re talking about. Be sure your reasons are good ones and, sappy as it sounds, make sure their foundation is a love of writing. Not “success” because success is a fickle thing and comes or not at whim. Not the respect and validation of your peers, because odds are you won’t get it. Not even publication, because, even though it’s very easy to get some form of publication these days if that’s all you want, know that the world turns merrily along whether you get a byline or not.

The love of writing is, like virtue, it’s own reward. John Doe Tenacious wrote with no impact and no real success for forty years. Was it a waste of time? Forty years down the drain? That all depends. If he was chasing the shibboleth of success, if he didn’t love what he was doing and kept going only out of stubbornness, then yes, it was a complete and total waste of time and he was a damn fool besides. His entire life becomes a tragedy. Yet if he wrote for the love and joy of it, to be a better person and to understand the world he lived in a little better, if he believed in what he did, then it doesn’t matter if he was the worst writer who ever touched a keyboard, because he spent forty years doing exactly what he wanted to do, and what he loved to do.

And if that’s tragedy, friends and neighbors, I’ll take a bushel.