On Writing....
Jun. 7th, 2007 10:04 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shadowkatTo post or not to post...therein lies the question. Yesterday, Wales gave me an article entitled My Book Deal Ruined My Life - it is basically about how writers can't help but write, even if their habit kills relationships, makes them lonely, and often broke - taking day jobs to support it. Oddly comforting.
Anyhow - I found a link to it - so you too can read it and be comforted or not as the case may be.
http://www.observer.com/2007/my-book-deal-ruined-my-life
Here's a couple of snippets:
“You hear about these big contracts coming in, and it whets your appetite,” said Leah McLaren, a columnist for Canada’s Globe and Mail, who landed a book contract with HarperCollins Canada in 2003 for her chick-lit novel, The Continuity Girl. “You start to think, ‘This is my lottery ticket …. It could be optioned for a movie or become a huge best-seller!’”
“But then, it could completely disappear and sell five copies,” added Ms. McLaren whose own book was published to little fanfare as a paperback original in the States this spring. “And you’ll never be heard from again. You’ll disappear. And that’s the real risk of writing a book.”
Then there are the truly epic downfalls of authors like James Frey, whose fabricated memoir caused his life (and his seven-figure two-book deal with Riverhead) to shatter into a million little pieces. Now he’s writing two novels without a contract and posting on the blog and message boards on his Web site, bigjimindustries.com—the literary equivalent of living in a trailer park.
[I always thought the publisher and editor should have gotten the brunt of that attack not Frey who was talked into taking a fictional story he wrote and turning it into a memoir because that would sell. They had no interest in doing it as fiction. If the editor who told him that should have lost his/her job over it. Maybe they did. Not sure.]
And then there’s the self-loathing.
“You’re not letting people read it as you write it. Nobody has ever read what you’re doing. It could be terrible. It could be brilliant. And you start to think, ‘Oh God, this is a complete piece of shit that couldn’t be published—nobody is going to read it.’ But then you have a sandwich and go, ‘I am a genius and I’m going to win the Booker Prize.’”
And even before the potential post-publication humiliation, there’s deadline pressure; crippling self-doubt; diets of Entenmann’s pastries and black coffee; self-made cubicles structured with piles of books, papers and unpaid bills; night-owl tendencies; failed relationships; unanswered phone calls; weight gain; poverty; and, of course, exhaustion.
But...if this is the case why do we do it?
Mr. Sullivan has held 27 jobs to support his writing career, from selling chapstick on the street to being a night guard in an art gallery (“That was my favorite job ever, because I just sat in a chair and read novels all day,” Mr. Sullivan added.)
He is currently working on his second novel. His first one, well, “There are eight drafts of it—they’re in my basement right now,” he said in a phone interview from his Fort Greene apartment. He trashed the novel after he got into a public fight with his first agent and decided to start anew. “You have to learn how to suppress your gag reflex in order to get anything out. Like in love, you make a lot of mistakes and you learn from them.”
Indeed, despite the heartbreak, the loneliness, the trashed drafts, the rejected proposals, writers will continue to reach for the golden ticket, the fulfillment of their American dream.
“In terms of the most joyous life to have in the world, in terms of pleasure receptors, it might be like being a heroin addict: It’s the most pleasurable thing that you could choose, if you have that constant access,” said Mr. Englander, before hanging up to head to the coffee shop and write. “I’ll say, ‘Oh, yeah, it almost killed me,’ but I’m saying that in the most positive way, because it’s all I want to do.”
- The article is by Gillian Regan.
I remember ages ago...in a Creative Writing course in college - it was approximately a semesters worth of work crammed in the space of two months. Did the same thing for a Creative Writing Poetry course. All you did was crank out the work. In the space of two months I cranked out over fifty some stories, revised them, and worked late at night in the campus library computer room with over a 100 degree fever (didn't own my own computer so had to use the school's - computers were pricey back in those days). Ironically the story that ended up winning second place in the college's annual literary contest - was the one I wrote with the fever. At any rate, my Creative Writing prof, an old curmudegeon of a guy, looked a bit like a troll, or rather how I'd imagine a troll would look, wrinkles falling in on themselves, protruding upper lip, bulbous nose, bushy eyebrows, heavy forehead, big and squat, with bulging eyes behind magnifying glasses - told the class that if you were writing because you wanted to be a bestseller or Stephen King, for the glamour, don't. Since that was unlikely to happen. Write, he said, because you can't help yourself. Because you have something to say. The drive.
I looked at Wales the other night, somewhat bummed, and said..."It's true. I can't help myself. I've been known to stay up until midnight or two in the morning on a work night writing in my lj. That movie review I sent you? Nothing. Do those all the time. I would rather write than hang out with friends at a restaurant or bar. My jobs? To support my writing habit. It's insane. But I can't stop. I love it too much. I love writing stories, letters, posts, what-have-you. Just writing. I can't explain it."
Wales simply nodded and said, "you don't have to."
Anyhow - I found a link to it - so you too can read it and be comforted or not as the case may be.
http://www.observer.com/2007/my-book-deal-ruined-my-life
Here's a couple of snippets:
“You hear about these big contracts coming in, and it whets your appetite,” said Leah McLaren, a columnist for Canada’s Globe and Mail, who landed a book contract with HarperCollins Canada in 2003 for her chick-lit novel, The Continuity Girl. “You start to think, ‘This is my lottery ticket …. It could be optioned for a movie or become a huge best-seller!’”
“But then, it could completely disappear and sell five copies,” added Ms. McLaren whose own book was published to little fanfare as a paperback original in the States this spring. “And you’ll never be heard from again. You’ll disappear. And that’s the real risk of writing a book.”
Then there are the truly epic downfalls of authors like James Frey, whose fabricated memoir caused his life (and his seven-figure two-book deal with Riverhead) to shatter into a million little pieces. Now he’s writing two novels without a contract and posting on the blog and message boards on his Web site, bigjimindustries.com—the literary equivalent of living in a trailer park.
[I always thought the publisher and editor should have gotten the brunt of that attack not Frey who was talked into taking a fictional story he wrote and turning it into a memoir because that would sell. They had no interest in doing it as fiction. If the editor who told him that should have lost his/her job over it. Maybe they did. Not sure.]
And then there’s the self-loathing.
“You’re not letting people read it as you write it. Nobody has ever read what you’re doing. It could be terrible. It could be brilliant. And you start to think, ‘Oh God, this is a complete piece of shit that couldn’t be published—nobody is going to read it.’ But then you have a sandwich and go, ‘I am a genius and I’m going to win the Booker Prize.’”
And even before the potential post-publication humiliation, there’s deadline pressure; crippling self-doubt; diets of Entenmann’s pastries and black coffee; self-made cubicles structured with piles of books, papers and unpaid bills; night-owl tendencies; failed relationships; unanswered phone calls; weight gain; poverty; and, of course, exhaustion.
But...if this is the case why do we do it?
Mr. Sullivan has held 27 jobs to support his writing career, from selling chapstick on the street to being a night guard in an art gallery (“That was my favorite job ever, because I just sat in a chair and read novels all day,” Mr. Sullivan added.)
He is currently working on his second novel. His first one, well, “There are eight drafts of it—they’re in my basement right now,” he said in a phone interview from his Fort Greene apartment. He trashed the novel after he got into a public fight with his first agent and decided to start anew. “You have to learn how to suppress your gag reflex in order to get anything out. Like in love, you make a lot of mistakes and you learn from them.”
Indeed, despite the heartbreak, the loneliness, the trashed drafts, the rejected proposals, writers will continue to reach for the golden ticket, the fulfillment of their American dream.
“In terms of the most joyous life to have in the world, in terms of pleasure receptors, it might be like being a heroin addict: It’s the most pleasurable thing that you could choose, if you have that constant access,” said Mr. Englander, before hanging up to head to the coffee shop and write. “I’ll say, ‘Oh, yeah, it almost killed me,’ but I’m saying that in the most positive way, because it’s all I want to do.”
- The article is by Gillian Regan.
I remember ages ago...in a Creative Writing course in college - it was approximately a semesters worth of work crammed in the space of two months. Did the same thing for a Creative Writing Poetry course. All you did was crank out the work. In the space of two months I cranked out over fifty some stories, revised them, and worked late at night in the campus library computer room with over a 100 degree fever (didn't own my own computer so had to use the school's - computers were pricey back in those days). Ironically the story that ended up winning second place in the college's annual literary contest - was the one I wrote with the fever. At any rate, my Creative Writing prof, an old curmudegeon of a guy, looked a bit like a troll, or rather how I'd imagine a troll would look, wrinkles falling in on themselves, protruding upper lip, bulbous nose, bushy eyebrows, heavy forehead, big and squat, with bulging eyes behind magnifying glasses - told the class that if you were writing because you wanted to be a bestseller or Stephen King, for the glamour, don't. Since that was unlikely to happen. Write, he said, because you can't help yourself. Because you have something to say. The drive.
I looked at Wales the other night, somewhat bummed, and said..."It's true. I can't help myself. I've been known to stay up until midnight or two in the morning on a work night writing in my lj. That movie review I sent you? Nothing. Do those all the time. I would rather write than hang out with friends at a restaurant or bar. My jobs? To support my writing habit. It's insane. But I can't stop. I love it too much. I love writing stories, letters, posts, what-have-you. Just writing. I can't explain it."
Wales simply nodded and said, "you don't have to."
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no subject
Date: 2007-06-08 03:37 am (UTC)Case in point. I was a member of an on-line writers' group a couple of years ago, one of those forums where you got your work critiqued in exchange for critiquing others. Nice people, serious about what they were trying to do, not many of them could write their way out of a paper bag, however.
Shortly after I joined, another fellow signed up who was an instant hit with the "ladies" of the group. He was a smooth operator, in a "Southern Gentleman" way, and seemed to enjoy all the flirting and double entendre that went on. He posted a couple of things about his childhood (his mother was Native American) that were very moving and quite good. We were all delighted to hear that he'd sold his first novel and that it was soon to be published.
I pre-ordered his book from Amazon.com, not just to be supportive, but because I was really looking forward to reading it.
All I can say is it was one of the worst pieces of crap I have ever laid eyes on...bordering on paedophilia. The protagonist was a 14-year-old "bayou" girl who had come up the hard way, and learned that she could get pretty much whatever she wanted out of a man if she teased him in just the right way, without ever putting out, if she could help it.
Now, on that basis, there's nothing to say that it couldn't have been a bestseller, but the writing itself was atrocious. The characters were one-dimensional, the dialogue stiff and inconsistent, and the plot basically non-existent; just one titillating vignette after another. It read like a series of short stories in a men's magazine from the 50s.
Nevertheless, this fellow's friends and family had read his manuscript and told him it was great; he'd found an agent who read the manuscript and agreed to represent him; and that agent found a publisher who purchased the manuscript and actually published it. And now it's buried somewhere in a pile beside my bed, about 1/4 read, and destined to be thrown out, because I would never dream of giving it to anyone else to read.
I don't know what all this proves, except that maybe life isn't fair? This guy has now got all kinds of encouragement to go on creating this dreck, while other, far more worthy authors, seem to toil in vain, and in anonymity.
Go figure.
:o\
no subject
Date: 2007-06-08 01:06 pm (UTC)Sigh.
The publishing industry gives me headaches, whenever I think about it. And it is the main reason I wish I wasn't driven to write, because I'd rather go to the dentist than deal with it. I've worked in it, dealt with it, and had friends in it.
Acquistions editors - these guys don't read. Or the one's I've met don't. Let me amend that - they do read. But not the MSS. They read the *pitch* or *query* - they look at the letter - see what markets the book will sell in, and if they can SELL it. If they can't figure out how to SELL it, they won't grab it. Doesn't matter how well written it is. All about what can be sold.
This is not just true about publishing - it's true in all the entertainment and art businesses. It's not geared towards quality - it's geared to what they can sell. Your description of this writer explains why he got published - he's a natural salesman with loads of charisma.
John Maxim, Nicholas Sparks, and Dan Brown = former account execs and ad guys. Mitch Ablom = journalist selling his work.
Ages ago a college art professor took my class to an art exhibit - told us all how much of what was on display was complete crap, but it would get bought or seen - because the artists were excellent at sales and marketing. She said that was the one skill many really good artists lacked the ability to *market* themselves.
If you read any of the professional writers blogs, note what they talk about doing? They are a)constantly pitching their work, b)going on book tours and giving radio speeches, c) at conventions and panels, d)heading workshops...constantly selling. And the money for a good portion of the travel and marketing is coming from their own pockets.
An excellent example of this is what happened witht the novel "The Horse Whisper" which was sold based on the first three chapters - the best part of the novel in many readers opinions. The rest of it, not so great. An acquisitions editor optioned the book mainly on those chapters - the rest wasn't finished and she didn't care. When she got it, she told the writer to work up the romance more and made a few other suggestions - not based on what would make the story better - no - but what would make it a better sale.