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Quit This, Not That (For Writers)
Writing is hard. So quit. Give up your dream of being a novelist/short story author/screenwriter/memoirist. Delete all those half-finished manuscripts and do something else with all that “free time” that was never really free. Or… You could continue writing and quit other things instead. For example: Quit believing you will never finish writing your novel. Writers who aren’t nearly as smart/talented/dedicated/beautiful/lost/uncertain/crazy as you completed their novels. Of course you can finish yours. Stop being so dramatic. Quit telling yourself you suck as a writer. This is counterproductive. And redundant. All writers suck at some point in their career. Some suck at many points in their career. But stop telling yourself…
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So What?
Right now, you’re thinking one of these things: “My novel sucks.” “What if no one buys my book?” “I got a one-star review!” “I got a hundred five-star reviews!” “I don’t know if I have what it takes to be a writer.” And right now, I’m thinking this: So what? Does your novel suck? Maybe. Maybe not. Some of the best books I’ve edited arrived from the author with a side of Severe Doubt. “It might make you ill.” It didn’t. Conversely, some of the worst books I’ve edited arrived from the author with a side of Unwarranted Confidence. “I think it’s really good.” It wasn’t. Most authors struggle to…
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How to Love Writing
“I hate writing. I love having written.” – Dorothy Parker I’ve met a few people who are quick to say they love writing. They are sincere, happy people who tend to glow in the dark. People who eagerly sift through tornado-paths of literary devastation to find the one story that can threaten to replace your well-earned despair with un-warranted hope. I hate* those people. I also hate writing. Okay, maybe that’s a little bit strong. How about this: I find it difficult to love writing. Oh, there are moments when writing appears to be lovable. Like the moment when you first come up with a story idea. “I’m a genius!”…
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Meet Me at the Breaking Place
“This book is incredible. You absolutely have to read it.” Ah, these words. More than mere validation for authors who spend so much time in uncertain solitude, they are payment and a generous tip for all the pain endured on the road from first thought to last word. They are the perfect reward. “It’s a good book.” “A great read.” “So well-written.” These are fine words, too. Encouraging words. We’ll take them above silence any day. But they fall far short of “you have to read this,” which, when expanded to its original size, looks something like this: “If you don’t read this book, you won’t merely have missed out…
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At the End of the Day
At the end of the day, you either wrote something or you didn’t. Maybe it was a banner day, when the stars all aligned and the metaphors all sang and the characters all looked up from the page to offer their thanks for three dimensions instead of two, for flesh and bone and blood and tears, for life itself, even though some of them will be dead by page 243. Especially because of that. Maybe it was a prolific day, a day of ten thousand perfect words, or ten thousand shitty words. A marathon that left you sweaty and exhausted and finger-cramped and grateful and utterly bewildered by your apparent…