Photo by Toimetaja tõlkebüroo.
In the wake of the winter holidays and associated socializing, I’ve been thinking again about the ways in which my experiences at gatherings of family and acquaintances have changed since leaving the Art Institute. More specifically, I’ve been thinking about how awkward casual chit-chat has become after shifting from a full-time position (even one in a field plenty of people already consider silly or pretentious) to writing and freelancing.
To be fair, I’ve always swum in the deep end of introversion, so schmoozing has never been something I’ve particularly loved. But while I used to worry about the awkwardness of not having anything to say, now I worry about the awkwardness of having to field questions I don’t want—or don’t know how—to answer.
Even though my experiences are, of course, far from universal, I have noticed other authors express similar difficulties in talking about their careers with people outside the field.
So, I thought I would break with my normal Visual Writer format this week for a post addressing these common experiences and offer some suggestions on how non-writers might better communicate with the seemingly-awkward writers (or other creatives) in their lives.
Getting published is not what you think it is.
Popular media depictions of novelists “making it” consistently suggest that success in writing requires little more than a decent novel. Actually, after the success of Fifty Shades of Grey, plenty of people assume you don’t even need the novel to be decent. Depictions of how long it takes to write a book are similarly seriously skewed to represent the exceptional or impossible, giving the impression that writers complete ready-to-publish manuscripts in a matter of weeks, maybe even days. In reality, a new novelist’s success in traditional publishing requires, at minimum:
-a well-written, thoroughly reviewed, well-edited book (a process that should take a minimum of several months and could require multiple years, depending on writing speed and experience)
-a concept and style that strike both agents and publishers as marketable right now (meaning, in part, a concept that feels fresh without being too weird/difficult/new; one that doesn’t remind them too much of something else they’ve read, whether published or unpublished; and something that fits the cultural moment per the lens of publishing)
-a plot that can be excitingly and adequately explained in a pitch, cover letter, and synopsis (this is especially tricky for books that are not first and foremost about plot)
-a well-constructed pitch, cover letter, and synopsis
-a solid platform (ie, an active, well-crafted website; social media presence; shorter publications; etc.)
-finding an agent who is both interested in your work and good at their job.
There are exceptions to some of the above—mostly predicated on the would-be author already being a celebrity or otherwise well-connected—but those are outliers, representing lottery-winning exceptions, not the rule.
Successfully ticking off each of these requirements requires a ton of work, a ton of research, a ton of time, and a decent sprinkling of luck. It also inevitably requires a lot of criticism and rejection, and thus a lot of discomfort and resilience. For many writers, the process of creating can feel like opening a wound, and the processes of beta-reading, editing, and submitting basically involve letting other people reach in and rummage around in that wound. Sometimes that rummaging is helpful, removing rot and leaving what remains cleaner and healthier; mostly, though, it’s just clumsy and painful.
Then, being published is also not a guarantee of financial success. Although possible, people who make a living as authors are the exceptions, not the rule.
Because writers know there is a vast gulf between what they are actually dealing with and what everyone else thinks they are dealing with, answering questions about our work can be uncomfortable. We know most people are just trying to be polite and show interest by probing us about what we’re doing, but those well-meaning questions may force us to discuss things that can be, at best, awkward and, at worst, painful.
What you can do:
1) Keep Initial questions vague and respectful
Generally speaking, good conversation-starting questions for writers—especially ones you aren’t already close to—should be as open-ended as possible, giving them the opportunity to dive in if they want to (and prepare yourself, because some will DEFINITELY want to) or easily demure. Specifically, try things like:
Are you at a place in your book where you feel comfortable talking about it?
Did you like that conference/residency/class you mentioned last time I saw you?
Or even: I’m interested in knowing more about your work if you’d like to talk about it.
Just showing some sensitivity about the process can make the person you’re talking to more likely to open up.
On the other hand, if they give a quick answer and don’t offer further details, feel free to change the subject.
2) No advice, please
Many people, myself included, often try to show support by giving what we hope is helpful advice. But the thing is, if you aren’t actually involved in publishing, your advice—especially unasked for advice—probably isn’t going to be helpful.
Serious writers who aren’t absolute beginners will have done their research, which means that not only do they already know a lot more about their industry than you do, but they have also already spent a lot of time and energy sifting through piles of conflicting statements from publishing and writing insiders.
I know that, for me, getting lay advice usually results in my trying to politely explain either why I’m not going to follow the offered suggestion or how it’s something I’m already doing. Again, it’s awkward. Sometimes it’s also a little insulting.
Consider: would you want an outsider to your industry giving you advice on how to do your job? Would you want to have to either lie and pretend you will implement their advice or explain to them why their advice is bad? Worse, it can put the writer in a position of sounding like they’re making excuses or trying to avoid doing all they can, when in fact they are just being prudent.
Exception: If you know an industry professional who you think would be interested in the work of the writer you’re conversing with, by all means mention it and offer to connect them. That is insider knowledge, and many writers would appreciate help on this point.
In other words, the writer in your life probably wishes you knew just how hard, how personal, how long, and how demoralizing the road to publishing actually is. We want you to understand that we can be good at what we do and still not break through. Yet. And although we value your interest and support, how you show that interest and support also matters.
So please, don’t stop talking to us. Just try to be a little mindful about what you say.