When I first started writing, I attempted to emulate my favorite authors (though Arthur C. Clarke and Ernest Hemingway would have struggled to find even the slightest resemblance). This is the way it goes for many writers. We begin our journey to uniqueness by trying to be someone else. Isn’t it the same way with musicians? [Cue “Smoke on the Water.”] It’s only after hundreds of thousands of words, most of which we prefer to forget, that we finally begin to find our one-of-a-kind writing voice.*
And then what do we do? We use that compellingly unique voice to tell the stories we think will sell.
Not right away. First there’s a season when we write the stories of our heart without consideration of marketability. These are the stories that poke at us from the inside. Stories that defy traditional categorization. Plots that take unpopular twists. Characters who don’t act the way they do in other people’s books.
For many writers, that season doesn’t last. Stories that poke writers from the inside are often a tough sell, especially through traditional circles (but also in the new world of Self-Publish Whatever You Want).
I didn’t really mean it, Marketing. Have I told you how nice you look today? Love the bow tie. You’re wearing it ironically, right?
Selling books is an honorable and good goal. We find validation in readership and readership mostly comes from selling books. (Or giving them away. But that’s the subject of another blog post.) I know we say “I don’t care if I become rich and famous, I’m happy if even one person likes my novel.” But we don’t mean it as much as we’d like to. And it’s because we don’t mean it as much as we’d like to that our writing often takes a subtle (and sometimes not so subtle) detour. We start to ask different “Maybe” questions than we once did.
Maybe if I make the vampires more sparkly.
Maybe if I add a love triangle.
Maybe if I sprinkle in a few zombies.
Maybe if I make the antagonist more Republican.
Don’t miss the point here. Maybe isn’t a bad word. Quite the contrary. Writers are made out of Maybes. But when the market (or our best understanding of it) begins to dictate what kind of Maybes we should ponder in the writing process, we risk losing what makes our writing voice unique. Note that I said “we risk losing.” It’s not a given that a writer in search of sales will lose his voice in that pursuit. But the temptation to “write books that can sell” can chip away at what makes that writer uniquely wonderful.
So is it some kind of compromise then? Finding the happy medium between who we are and what we know will sell? If your primary goal is to sell books, then yes, the writing process will sometimes feel like compromise. You’ll choose genres that you might not have chosen to write before. You’ll revise your story so it grabs readers from page one, rather than letting it simmer for a few chapters as in your original plan. You’ll add subplots to spice up the romance or kick up the action.
Is that such a bad thing?
No. It’s your story and you can do whatever you want with it. And a good editor will help you maintain your voice even as you work toward your primary goal of selling books.
So it’s all good, then, right?
Yep. It’s all good. That is, until you feel a story poking at you from the inside that doesn’t fit the current brand-development plan.
I know what you’re thinking. You can write both kinds of books. The ones that have a good chance of selling, and the ones that poke at you from the inside. (I’m aware they might actually be one and the same. If they are? Why are you reading this? Surely not so you can gloat. You’re far too content with your writing life to gloat.)
Go ahead and divide yourself into two authors – the one who cranks out romance novels for a ready audience and the one who writes about the lost legacy of forgotten presidents. (Or whatever.) Then let me know where you found all those extra hours in a day, because you’re going to need them to support two careers.
If you have that kind of time, go for it. Seriously. You’ll have the best of both worlds. But if you don’t? Well, I’d counsel my authors to write the sellable books. And then I’d do my damnedest to make sure each one is amazing and notable for its uniquely compelling author’s voice.
But as you may already know about me, I don’t often take my own advice. I have a hard time writing shitty first drafts (you might disagree, of course) and I don’t write every day and I have poor posture and suffer from questionable eating habits. (Breakfast – it’s the most important meal of the day. That’s why I save it for late afternoon, when I’m actually hungry.)
I had a brief season when I tried to write marketable books. Those unfinished masterpieces have since been relegated to the “Nope” folder on my computer.
Instead, I have decided to only write those books that poke at me from the inside.
There’s the novelette (really? who reads those?) about a bomb that lands on a boy’s desk, and the way his life is changed by that singular event. And the speculative YA novel that has no factions, no love triangles, and no chapters-long training scenes. And the story about a 10-year-old girl named Raspberry who moves with her dying father to live on a hill overlooking a haunted forest.
When people ask me what genre my books are, I don’t know what to tell them.
They’re…um…about longing and loss and hope and brokenness and grace and sometimes monsters. They’re…Stephenesque?
Not very compelling cover copy.
Do I want my books to sell? Of course. And to that end, I’m self-publishing some and pursuing an agent for others. But I’m not chasing royalties. I’m not chasing validation. I’m simply chasing the stories. So far, it’s been quite an entertaining journey. And you’ll never guess what I’m finding along the way…
*Not sure if you’ve found yours yet? Here’s a test. Go back to the last thing you’ve written after leaving it alone for a couple of weeks. If you find yourself wondering what brilliant novelist is secretly making your words sound better, you’re quite probably there. Or at least at the beginning of “there.” Your voice will change over time as you do. And if you aren’t impressed by your words? Well, that doesn’t mean you can’t write. Nor does it mean you can’t sell books. Readers are a fickle bunch. And I’m sure you’ll agree that they don’t care a tenth as much about writing voice as you or I do. Except the ones that are also writers. (I think I just created another black hole there. Sorry, Siberia.)