A little later today I’m giving a talk to college students enrolled in a course about writing fiction for young adults. I know. Why am I not teaching this thing? I’m not really convinced that writing is the sort of thing that can be learned by everyone enlisted in a semester-long three-credit course, personally, but the good thing about a seminar is that the very presence of academic structure gives students every chance to succeed. The regular checkpoints, the guide markers along the way, the evaluations—they all give aspiring writers a solid pace to follow, and a sense of achievement by semester’s end when they’ve produced their three short stories or their workshop-vetted novella.
I’m not being asked to talk about the actual crafting of novels, at any rate. I got called in to talk about having a career as a published author. And this year, when I was looking over my standard outline of what I call The Fabulous Author Speech, I found myself scrubbing out roughly half of the old talk and adding a completely new section titled, Are you really sure you want to seek publication?
Much of my talks in the past, you see, have assumed that everyone listening to me blathering on naturally wants their volumes to appear on the shelves of Barnes & Noble. It’s the dream that aspiring authors confess when they approach me shyly. I know it’s the goal of many fine writers of my personal acquaintance. As an achievement it’s all well and good, but I know perfectly well that not everyone wants to go through the rigors of seeking publication, nor the exposure, nor the mental gymnastics it requires. The publishing business, as I stress in my talk, is not the ultimate reward for the most deserving; it’s merely a delivery system for writing that has a market and is at least competent.
So today I plan to give these students a few hard questions to ask themselves. What are your work habits? is the first. If you’re being completely honest with yourself, I plan to inquire, can you look at your past writing history and affirm that you’ll be able to finish a three-hundred-page book without stalling out after the first three chapters? Will you be able to finish it on a deadline? During the Christmas holidays when everyone wants you to be social and fun and keep the house clean? Will you be able to sit at the computer from eight in the morning until midnight when you know that deadline is approaching and you’re scared pantsless than you won’t be able to finish?
Do you have the financial resources and the time to write? I worked full-time when the first twelve of my books came out, drudging at my day job from nine to five and then writing from six-thirty to midnight all week. Sometimes I wrote four novels a year. One’s first (or second, or third) book is not going to make one financially independent overnight, and it could be several years before that first manuscript makes any money for you at all.
Are you able to write more than one novel? Because publishers don’t like one-trick ponies unless their names are Harper and Lee. And I’m pretty sure Lippincott would’ve loved a Mockingbird follow-up. It’s common for people to stall after writing one manuscript, but for the vast majority of writers one single completed product does not a career make.
Are you willing to be flexible? I’ve had an editor tell me, “I love your characters and setting and tone, but can you change the entire plot of the book?” I am currently working on revising a novel in which the editor has asked me to excise thirty to forty pages from the first one hundred. Painful as both scenarios are, they require jumping into them with enthusiasm and a sense of experiment and play, not regarding a manuscript as untouchable holy writ.
Are you writing for the right reasons? If you’re writing with the dream of having an editor call with the news that she loves your first book and that you are the most favored and talented person on earth, as a heavenly chorus of angels carol around you, you’re writing for the wrong reasons. If you dream of a beautiful book signing in which all your friends show up and fawn, and your foes have to grit their teeth over the catered appetizers and agree that you are the most fabulous person they know, or if you’re dreaming of a smart Manhattan luncheon in which you get to sip margaritas and reject dozens of book cover designs while your editors attempt to curry your favor, you’re writing for the wrong reasons. Same if you’re writing to get on Oprah. The reality of the writing life stinks: people will make fun of your pen name and not realize or care that they’re hurting your feelings. The book signings are often deadly dull and make you feel as if you’re a leper thrown into Borders in a quarantined area where no one dares to tread. You get stuck with book covers you hate, sometimes, and Oprah is never going to call. My father butchers the titles of my books; my partner does not read them. Very few of my immediate friends buy or read them. Most people will not realize how exciting it is to write for young adults, and look down upon you for writing for mere children. Or for writing fantasy. Or for writing for girls. Or for writing fiction. Most people think writing in general is like girls’ cheerleading in high school. It’s all very well to have fun with, but it’s not something one really considers as a full-time, acceptable, grown-up career. If you’re writing for the glory, or the fame, or for validation from your family and the public, you’re only going to be sadly disappointed, and disappointed quickly.
Finally and most importantly, Are you willing to pursue a bumpy path without shortcuts, even with no guarantee of success? That is, are you honestly willing to endure dozens and even hundreds of rejection letters—some of the quite cruel—that can debilitate your psyche? If not, perhaps now is not the time to follow the path. Are you willing to commit months and years of searching for your agent and publisher without giving in to the temptation of self-publishing just to have the momentary gratification of seeing your name on the cover of a book-like facsimile? It may resemble a book, it may be special-ordered through Amazon like a legitimately-published book, and it may give your mother something she can put on her coffee table, but precious few people are ever going to get their hands on it. Professional writer’s organizations will not recognize it when you apply for membership. Agents for future books you may compose will think twice about you, when you submit it as a credential. If you’re not willing to take the hard knocks gracefully, and keep sending out those query letters and synopses and to keep working on new projects for as long as it takes, now is not the time to follow the publishing path.
Because really, I want to say today, learning how to write is an admirable goal in itself, inside a classroom and without. Being published doesn’t make me a better writer; only challenging myself to develop my craft can do that. Being a published author just means I’ve managed to master the few self-promotional and marketing skills necessary to attract the attention of an agent, some editors, and a few publishing houses.
Being a better writer leads one to appreciate better the technical aspects of storytelling, and to recognize what makes a good story successful and a bad one dreadful to endure. Knowing how storytellers (and script writers) meticulously emphasize elements and manipulate their characters will spoil (let's say) every M. Night Shyamalan movie for you ten minutes into the screening, but it helps you appreciate how a script can work on a technical level (hi there, The Sixth Sense!) or help you understand why they fail (hello, Lady in the Water!). Being a better writer helps you understand why the people around you, from your eccentric aunt to your co-workers to your mate, choose the stories they share. The manner in which they relate those stories—do they rush for the payoff, or slowly relish the humorous ironies or rich details, or do they simply give the briefest and most perfunctory outline in order to conclude the conversation?—will educate you, the writer and the listener, in what is most important in their lives. Writing well helps you learn those things. Being published does not.
Even if your only intention is to write for yourself, or for your children, or in order to become the very best Spock-on-Malfoy internet fan fiction writer ever, good writing is going to help you become more observant, I plan to tell these people. It’s going to make you more insightful, and hopefully more understanding—both of yourself and the world around you. That, I intend to say, is no small nor negligible achievement.
And for the love of God, please include with your queries a self-addressed, stamped envelope.
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