It’s probably safe to say that nothing you read
here on EftBB will ever help you achieve outstanding financial success as a
writer. For all the hard work I’ve done over the decades, the secret to
authorial fame and riches remains maddeningly beyond my muddled ken. I have
ultimately come to the conclusion that it is indeed possible to do everything
“right” and still come up short. One can pursue a dream to the end, obdurately believing
in the greatness of one’s vision, hoping with all one’s heart to strike that magic
chord in the soul of the reading public, yet simply lack the luck to be in the
right place at the right time, even as some demonstrably less-gifted writer strides
the best-seller list like a snot-nosed colossus, snickering all the way to the
bank.
This, alas, is life, arbitrary, cruel, perpetually
unfair, and always out to lunch at the complaints department. We may whine and
kvetch about talentless slop artists, ass-kissing arivistes, and upjumped hacks
with more aptitude for schmoozery than literary sense, but, in the end, that’s
just the way things work out. It doesn’t mean that we should not continue to
work hard every day, dedicate ourselves to doing our best in spite of
the odds, and strive towards greatness; it means we should probably develop a
set of realistic expectations about life in general, and this, our chosen
profession, in particular. What it all boils down to is; we do this work because it is the work we are meant to do, no matter what.
Here are a few thoughts on the subject:
(1) Nobody
will ever care about your work as much as you do.
Oh, some people will certainly care, often quite
intensely, about what you do; but, in the end, it’s not their life or their
work, it’s yours, and if you of all people aren’t passionate about it, how can
you expect others to be? A writer’s commitment and passion shines through on
every page—readers can tell—and there’s very little that turns readers off more
than a writer who clearly doesn’t have their heart in the endeavor. Authors who write in genres they clearly don’t
like—an all-too-common phenomenon in erotica—cheat their audience and
themselves.
(2) It is futile
(and self-destructive) to compare yourself with other writers.
Lawrence Block makes this point in Telling Lies
for Fun and Profit. We waste a lot of time and potential creative energy
obsessing about our place in the scheme of things—why we’re so much better than
this writer, or will never be as good as that one—always looking outward with
envy or stubborn defiance, scorn more often than not mingled with
self-loathing. The fact, whether we are willing to admit it or not, is that we are
most miserable when we try to be something we are not.
When we try to fit in, or change to please another person, or be like someone
else instead of being true to ourselves. A writer needs to develop a balance
between healthy self-love and honest humility.
(3) On the
other hand, a healthy competition with oneself—comparing your present work with
things you’ve done in the past—can be a key to growth.
To
paraphrase Tolstoy: you can’t become a better writer if you already think
your writing is perfect. If you understand that you are not in competition with other
writers, you will be free to develop the self-confidence to perceive not only how
good you are, but also how good you are not,
and when you understand that, you will find the space in which to strive, grow,
and improve.
(4) To be
great at something, you must concentrate solely on that one thing.
This doesn’t mean that you can achieve greatness
simply by setting your mind to it. Malcolm Gladwell famously posited that one
must put in 10,000 hours of practice to achieve mastery in a field—and that’s
still no guarantee of one’s 15 minutes of fame. Talent and inspiration are not
enough; you have to be willing and able to back those things up with real sweat
equity and single-minded commitment, pouring yourself—your mental and physical
energies—into this single endeavor, if only to see how good you can become.
Near
the end of his life, Norman Mailer said that every book he wrote killed him a
little bit more. And it’s true: we die slowly for our art. Writing is a
less-messy form of self-murder, and the work we leave behind an elaborate
suicide note.
I
think, too, of the film Quills
in which Jeffrey Rush portrays the Marquis de Sade: imprisoned, condemned as
possessed or insane, nothing stopped de Sade from expressing himself, to the
point where, after having his tongue cut out and being placed in solitary confinement,
he continued to write with his own feces... THAT is the madness that drives a true creative! THAT is the commitment that greatness demands.
Remember, though, that great things do
not always have to be big or extravagant things. Nor is it necessary to be the
center of attention in order to achieve a great thing. It is important,
however, not to spread oneself too thin.
(5) To this
end, cultivate a work ethic.
Anyone
who says that writing is easy is a liar. If writing is easy all the time,
you’re not doing it right. Indeed,
what so many people don't get is that writing is genuinely hard work, often
physically taxing and mentally draining. It can be frustrating as often as it
is rewarding, and there are times when it's difficult to justify the input of
labor and time by the usual metrics of conventional success. To optimize one’s
efforts, treat writing the way you would any serious work; develop
a daily writing schedule and discipline yourself to stick to it, especially if
you have any desire to earn more than a hobbyist’s income from the endeavor.
The
best way to produce a steady stream of high-quality work, is to observe regular
writing hours with defined daily starting and quitting times. Such a schedule
can conform to the needs of your life, whether early in the morning or late at
night, or in the middle of the afternoon, but it should ideally be the same time each day. Getting into the
regular pattern of writing, the quotidian habit of work, does wonders to
lubricate the mental mechanisms of craft. The difference between an amateur and
a professional is that the former believes they can sit and wait for
inspiration to pay a mysterious and unscheduled visit. The professional knows
that inspiration is drawn from within by the regular exercise of one’s mental
faculties.
It’s
OK, by the way, to be a "difficult person" where defending your work time is concerned. Make it clear
that you expect others to respect your schedule—but be just as adamant that you
respect it yourself by sticking to the hours you have established.
(6)
Don’t
spend your royalties before you’ve finished the book.
I don’t care if
you think you’ve got a story inside you. Come back when you have a dozen on
paper—or, better still, fifteen or fifty. Get into the habit of writing
everything down, and soon enough, you’ll have more stories than you can tell in
a lifetime. Build up a body of work you can be proud of, and don't keep it to yourself.
(7) Be the kind of professional you yourself
would like to deal with.
Believe it or not, editors, agents,
and publishers like dealing with people who are easy to work and get along
with. You can stick up for yourself and your work while still being agreeable,
and, in fact, other professionals will respect you for being true to yourself;
but you don’t have to do this by (1) putting other writers down, either overtly
or passive-aggressively, (2) behaving like a spoiled prima dona, believing that
you are above constructive criticism or too great to take advice.
Remember that a
smart, thoughtful consistency is the essence of professionalism. If people have
had good experiences with you in the past, and expect the same in the future,
that is an asset more valuable than almost anything else.
There are, of course, exceptions to every rule...
To be continued...
(Read Part 2
here)
