A writer's quandry
Mar. 8th, 2009 06:05 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shadowkatSo, I've just finished a novel, it's a little novel, which I am in the process of revising in order to hopefully submit it to a publisher before the end of this year - or that is my goal. But, I can't seem to motivate myself to finish revising. Part of me doesn't even want to get it published, let alone read by anyone else. I find myself in a bit of a quandry, a pickle, as it were.
The more I learn about the publishing world and readers, specifically those who review and blog on books, the more hesistant I am about sharing what I write with them. I am beginning to wonder if I lack the courage necessary to become a professional and published writer? Because publishing a book, putting it out there, where it will most likely be torn to shreds metaphorically speaking, is an act of considerable courage.
Also, there's the whole marketing the book deal. Traveling about, doing the late night radio talk shows, the book signings, and the readings in front of inpatient and edgy listeners...that makes me cringe. Gone are the days in which you can just send in the manuscript and remain silent, at home, waiting for your royalty check, as you write the next book. Assuming those days ever really existed, perhaps for a few writers, but a relative few.
I've read the professional writer's blogs on lj and their stories make me cringe. Their lives aren't easy, the writing is, but the selling and the criticism, surely not. And it makes me think twice about sharing my own work. Yes, I write, I'm driven to write, I can't stop writing. And I seem to be equally driven to share that writing. Plus, I crave responses to it, knowledge of how others view it - in the hopes, I guess, of connection, understanding, and maybe even a sense of accomplishment? But I find the criticism burns. Sometimes like a cigarrett on the arm, others like a hot poker to the genitals. Depends on the criticism and on the critic, I guess. The older I get, it gets no easier to take.
There are days like today, that I find myself in a writer's quandry. Particularly on my poor little novel, which I love deeply as deeply as anyone would a child that they've given birth to and nurtured for months at their bosom, and rocked on their knee, except I find I'm unable to send my poor little novel off to school and into the world. I want to keep it safe on CD and Hard Drive, far from critical eyes. Safe inside me. Because let's face it the world is not a safe place, particularly now with all these information outlets and critics multiplying by the thousands. It's not like it used to be, when the only critics one worried about were housed in journals, magazines and newspapers - now we have the internet, were everyone has an opinion and the opinions spread like wildfire - threatening to consume you. It's scarey. Particularly for a poor little defenseless book, not much more that 250 pages, that like a child, is and is not a part of the one who created it.
That's the thing - once you send your writing out there, it's no longer yours. It becomes theirs - to do with, interpret, as they will. You can protect it a bit, but not much. Editors will tear at the words. Characters you sweated over, will change names, even occupations.
And people, readers, critics will twist what you thought you wrote into something else, often something you never ever intended.
Ah writing, that's the easy part. But actually getting your work published and read? That's not for wimps, that takes courage - courage, I'm not sure I have.
The more I learn about the publishing world and readers, specifically those who review and blog on books, the more hesistant I am about sharing what I write with them. I am beginning to wonder if I lack the courage necessary to become a professional and published writer? Because publishing a book, putting it out there, where it will most likely be torn to shreds metaphorically speaking, is an act of considerable courage.
Also, there's the whole marketing the book deal. Traveling about, doing the late night radio talk shows, the book signings, and the readings in front of inpatient and edgy listeners...that makes me cringe. Gone are the days in which you can just send in the manuscript and remain silent, at home, waiting for your royalty check, as you write the next book. Assuming those days ever really existed, perhaps for a few writers, but a relative few.
I've read the professional writer's blogs on lj and their stories make me cringe. Their lives aren't easy, the writing is, but the selling and the criticism, surely not. And it makes me think twice about sharing my own work. Yes, I write, I'm driven to write, I can't stop writing. And I seem to be equally driven to share that writing. Plus, I crave responses to it, knowledge of how others view it - in the hopes, I guess, of connection, understanding, and maybe even a sense of accomplishment? But I find the criticism burns. Sometimes like a cigarrett on the arm, others like a hot poker to the genitals. Depends on the criticism and on the critic, I guess. The older I get, it gets no easier to take.
There are days like today, that I find myself in a writer's quandry. Particularly on my poor little novel, which I love deeply as deeply as anyone would a child that they've given birth to and nurtured for months at their bosom, and rocked on their knee, except I find I'm unable to send my poor little novel off to school and into the world. I want to keep it safe on CD and Hard Drive, far from critical eyes. Safe inside me. Because let's face it the world is not a safe place, particularly now with all these information outlets and critics multiplying by the thousands. It's not like it used to be, when the only critics one worried about were housed in journals, magazines and newspapers - now we have the internet, were everyone has an opinion and the opinions spread like wildfire - threatening to consume you. It's scarey. Particularly for a poor little defenseless book, not much more that 250 pages, that like a child, is and is not a part of the one who created it.
That's the thing - once you send your writing out there, it's no longer yours. It becomes theirs - to do with, interpret, as they will. You can protect it a bit, but not much. Editors will tear at the words. Characters you sweated over, will change names, even occupations.
And people, readers, critics will twist what you thought you wrote into something else, often something you never ever intended.
Ah writing, that's the easy part. But actually getting your work published and read? That's not for wimps, that takes courage - courage, I'm not sure I have.
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no subject
Date: 2009-03-09 04:31 am (UTC)At least that's the way I would approach it if it were my work. And unless the book would become a real bestseller, would there really be all that many radio interviews and book signings and such to hassle with?
And if it did become a bestseller, you could be wealthy and then you could hire someone to tell the critics to piss off.
I know if by some miracle I ever wrote something I thought was publish-worthy, I'd suck it up and get that puppy out there.
no subject
Date: 2009-03-09 12:00 pm (UTC)And alas, I think this is the problem.
I know that for the most part, writers write for themselves first, but for a writer to be a success, they'll usually need to take criticism, make concessions, kill their pretties as it were.
They'll need to love the story enough to write it, but be detached enough that they can change it, that a criticism doesn't hurt too much, that a flop doesn't crush their egos.
It's not only writers, all creative people are like that.
And it's a sad answer, but "Love your work less" is really the way to go. :(
no subject
Date: 2009-03-11 01:36 am (UTC)Advice I've heard before, but I really needed to hear again.
Thank you.
The Secret Miracle
Date: 2009-03-15 02:06 am (UTC)The world freezes.
The writer comes to realize that the physical world has been suspended, but his private world--the world of his mind--is still active. God has given him the time to write his novel. So, for what seems an endless length of time (but how could he tell?), the writer works on the novel, fine tunes it, edits it, and then adds a few final touches. Finally, the piece is finished to his satisfaction. His work on Earth is done. Time resumes, and his execution takes place exactly as it was supposed to.
This is a fascinating story for me, because it begs the question: is this an uplifting tale or a horror story? Can a work of art be a work of art if nobody is there to appreciate it but the creator and God (with God a questionable presence at best)?
If pen scratches on paper in the forest, does it make a sound?
I think it is the destiny of all published fiction to be read, reviewed, misunderstood, criticized, chewed up, spit out, with the public eventually arriving at a consensus that goes completely against what the author intended.
You're right--once it leaves your protective custody, it's not wholly yours anymore--but that can be a good thing. Others can show you dimensions to your work that you simply didn't notice because you were too close. You can meet and fraternize with other writers and editors who can help you fine tune your work and your craft. And if it does get published, you can meet your fans--those wonderful, devoted people who have their own unique view on what you've written.
I think letting your baby out into the world would be wonderful. But that's up to you. All I know is, I have a dozen ideas for a novel in my mind, and I ain't written squat. As far as I'm concerned, you've already won, big time.