I Have Met the Enemy

When I was in Art School, there was a little red book that was a mandatory reading for all students: Art and Fear by David Bayles and Ted Orland. Surprising as it may seem, I never read it. Back then, I didn’t want to waste my time with theory and ideas; I just wanted to paint. One of my girlfriends got a copy of the book, read it and lent it to me. A few months ago, while organizing my book shelves, I found said book. Inside was a receipt from 03/03/95!! (You may remove your calculators and figure out my age now. And for those of you shaking your heads, I promise to return the book soon!)

But aside from an old receipt, I found something else: understanding and enlightenment. Yes, lovely college professors wherever you might be, I finally read the book!

The beauty of this book is that it’s not just for visual artists. It’s also for musicians, writers and anyone who wants to (or has already) dedicated their life to artmaking. Thus, reading this book at this moment of my life couldn’t have been more timely. I’ve replaced the blank canvas for a blank page and my dirty brush for my handy dandy laptop. But the struggle to succeed in art, the self-doubt and the dry spells are still there—the same jewels that are present in all art forms. Isn’t that nice?

Interestingly, all these problems boil down to the same source: FEAR, our biggest enemy. Fear of failing grants us excuses not to write and/or sabotage our own work. This dreadful emotion can manifest itself in a variety of ways:

1. Being too busy 

By mentioning a list of all the activities we must get done every day, we prove that we really have no time to write. But honestly, if we really wanted to do it, we would find the time. (After all, we have done it in the past, right?) But writing means making choices and doing so can lead to failing, which we must avoid at all costs (or so we think).

2. Distraction

We set our work aside and find distractions from the blank page. This can take the form of activities as varied as the artists themselves: internet browsing, computer games, television, sports, visiting with friends, and a big etcetera. Of course, at the end of the day we “punish” ourselves for our distraction by calling ourselves lazy or unmotivated. Soon enough, we get so used to the distractions that the novel we were going to write one day becomes a permanent resident in the back of our minds.

3. Irritation

Irritation ranges from being frustrated with the materials (if you’re a visual artist) to discontent with the quality of writing we see in bookshelves to the heartbreaking process of publication, and everything in between. Anger can sometimes propel artists to create. But at other times it can bring us to a halt (who can concentrate when all you want to do is punch the computer screen?)

4. Questioning our talent

Another common habit is to put ourselves down. (It’s better than letting others do it.) We have a tendency to look at the finished work of others and determine that our own work will never get there, so we assume they must have something we don’t (aka, innate talent). Even worse, we fear we might be “pretending” to make art whereas the others are “the real thing.” According to Bayles and Orland, the idea that “extraordinary people make art” is a myth. (And I agree with them.) Not every artist, musician or writer is a genius (Mozart is an obvious exception) yet art gets made all the time. Books get published, paintings get sold and buildings get made. Pondering about our own talent or lack-thereof is frankly an unproductive exercise and one that will inevitably lead to uncertainty and self-doubt.

5. Perfectionism

One of the things we struggle with as creators is having to reconcile our initial vision of our work with the actual execution. Very often the final version of our piece is different from what we had originally envisioned (which can sometimes be a wonderful thing). But many times we can only look at its flaws and how it didn’t live up to our expectations. Worse yet, when we’re ready to start a new project, we hesitate to do it because we don’t want to “mess it up.” Like Ansel Adams said:

“To require perfection is to invite paralysis.” (Pg. 30)

As artists, we must come to terms with the fact that our imperfection is “necessary” to produce our artwork.

“To demand perfection is to deny your ordinary (and universal) humanity, as though you would be better off without it. Yet this humanity is the ultimate source of your work; your perfectionism denies you the very thing you need to get your work done. Getting on with your work requires a recognition that perfection itself is (paradoxically) a flawed concept.” (Pg. 31)

The only way to come close to this coveted “perfection” is to produce more work. The book mentions a case where a ceramics class was divided in two groups. One was supposed to work all semester in achieving “quantity,” the second group had to come up with ONE piece of “quality” to get an A. At the end of the semester, the group who achieved quantity produced better quality than the second group, who had been theorizing about perfection the entire semester.

6. Uncertainty

Creating art requires making decisions (and the more decisions you make, the less choices you’ll have). We might start with what materials to use (if you’re a visual artist) or what POV, genre and length would better serve your novel, to other important considerations such as theme, plot and characters (or subject matter for artists). There is an infinite number of decisions that will shape your piece and make it a reality. But this uncertainty can also lead you to inaction.

Sometimes we can’t imagine that successful artists may have experienced our same doubts, but even that apparently perfect piece was at some point a struggle for its maker. Art & Fear mentions that Tolstoy wrote War and Peace eight times and continued proofreading at the printing press.

“The truth is that the piece of art which seems so profoundly right in its finished state may earlier have been only inches or seconds away from total collapse.” (pg. 19)

7. Comparisons

Competition proves positive when it propels us to do our best work, but it can also be devastating if we constantly get the feeling that we lose in comparison to others (be it our peers or established professionals).

According to the book, we should ideally compete with ourselves but not by determining which is our best piece of work, but by understanding the differences and similarities of each one. This understanding will lead us to create an extended body of work where all our pieces (even the “crappy” ones) play a part.

8. Fears about others

How will your work be perceived? Will people understand it? Will they consider it “art” and if so, will they like it?

Many artists need public approval to value their work or themselves, but this is a slippery slope if we consider how subjective taste can be. Like Bayles and Orland say, giving the audience this much power can be dangerous. Artists may find themselves trying to please everyone or compromising their vision of their work in order to “fit.” But not being true to ourselves may lead to unhappiness. Like the book suggests, in the history of art the audience didn’t always “get” what the artist was trying to say. Sometimes it took a whole new generation to grasp new concepts and appreciate them.

In conclusion, understanding that our fears are normal and identifying the particular source of our inaction can help us fight it and move forward. Remember that:

“Quitting is fundamentally different from stopping. The latter happens all the time. Quitting happens once. Quitting means not starting again—and art is all about starting again.” (pg. 10)

I’ll leave you with this final thought:

“You have a choice between giving your work the best shot and risking that it will not make you happy, or not giving it your best shot—and thereby guaranteeing that it will not make you happy.” (pg. 118)

Do you see yourself in any of these behaviors? How do you overcome your fear of failure?

The Post-First Novel Syndrome

I have been observing myself and my closest writer friends for some time now (they don’t know this, but I have!) We all seem to be stuck somewhere between our second/third novel and query limbo. And we’re all suffering from similar symptoms:

- Chronic disappointment
- Cynicism
- Inability to fully engage with other works of fiction
- Indecision about what direction to take
- Apathy/dread when asked about our work
- Mood swings with regards to publishing/writing
- Loss of “innocence” and optimism

To name a few.

All of these are indicators of a malady I like to call the “Post-First Novel Syndrome” (PFNS). Just like the loss of virginity, once a writer has finished that first novel and rendered it to the world, she will never be able to go back to that innocent era of carefree writing where there weren’t enough hours in a day to complete the stories sketched in her mind. The pleasure of writing without restrictions of word count, plot structure or character arc will never come back. The second/third-novel-writer knows now that he may not be the exception (like he thought as he heard rumors about word count, POV, or other atrocities) but he could—sadly—be the rule, and there may be some validity to the advice he didn’t want to hear back when he was immersed in first-novel bliss.

Once a first novel has left the safety of a writer’s hard drive to receive feedback from critique partners and industry professionals, a shift takes place in the novice writer’s psyche. Pain, surprise, denial, embarrassment are some of the first emotions she may experience—as tender as blisters in the palm of a child’s hand after playing at the monkey bars for too long. After some time, when rejection letters start coming in and a second novel has been written, a sort of numbness sets in—the callousness of too many recesses hanging from a metal bar. Except that this callousness is not tangible. It’s embedded in our souls and in our confidence (or lack therof) as writers.

Most manuals and classes focus on getting that first novel written. They call it a big accomplishment (and it is) but I haven’t seen a lot of advice on how to continue after/if that novel doesn’t get published.

And it’s harder to write once we’ve had a bitter taste of reality.

Trying to find a solution to this common dilemma, I came across a couple of interesting articles. One blames writer inertia on fear, while this one tries to shake us all from our comfortably numb state.

As agent Rachelle Gardner states in this post, the test of persistence doesn’t come when we’re writing and revising our manuscripts. It comes when we’ve gotten 40 + rejection letters and yet we continue to polish our manuscripts, start new projects, or query more agents.

They say this is the period where most writers get weeded out.

(Not while penning their first novel, like we would like to think.) I know many people dream of writing a novel and never do it, but THOUSANDS are completing novels every year, and they’re competing against us. They’re being persistent, while we commiserate. Or research. Or take time off. Or develop our platforms.

There was a time when you would have laughed if someone suggested that you implement a writing schedule to force yourself to sit in front of the keyboard every day. (You needed a schedule for everything else you were forgetting to do while you wrote your novel!) Sadly, your new cynic self may have to trick your brain into doing just that in order to get that next project written. Back when you started writing and you relied on a dial up connection, your internet visits were short, to the point, and then you logged off to focus on your WIP. You didn’t know what blogs were and Facebook were two separate words. You were able to focus and concentrate in your story. You were so productive.

Now, as a PFNS writer, you have many good reasons for not writing:

1. You’re doing research.
2. You’re busy and don’t have time.
3. You’re trying to be productive elsewhere.
4. You need time off to think and plan your next move.
5. You have priorities and writing is not one of them.

One of the things that helped me get out of my endless revision stage was to sit down with pony-tailed colleague and write down a list of concrete writing goals (with deadlines) for the fall.

Sample list:

1. Send manuscript to beta readers/critique partners by X-day (whether revisions are ready or not!)
2. Enter such and such contest on Y-day.
3. Query 10-20 agents by Z-day.

Doing this simple exercise with someone else gives you a sense of accountability and makes you realize, after you’ve completed your short-term goals, that you are making progress in your career—even if it’s in turtle steps. Another idea is to get out of your house and go to a library and/or café to write. This prevents you from constantly checking emails or going online for research (as a historical writer, I know how important research is, but I also admit that it constantly interrupted my writing momentum.) One last, but important, tip. Stop thinking about what Mrs. Agent or Mr. Critique Partner are going to think about your writing. Write for yourself. Tell yourself “nobody else is going to read this” (because, really, nobody HAS to read it if you don’t want to.) Remind yourself that you’ll fix it later. Give yourself permission to make mistakes.

In the end, though, it all boils down to being honest with yourself. Do you really want to be a novelist? Maybe it’s an old dream and the reality of a writer’s life doesn’t excite you as it once did. And that may be fine for you. You may find another passion. After all, writing is a gamble. This is not a four-year college where you know that if you work hard, you’ll be guaranteed a degree. No guarantees here. But if you're just shutting the inner voice that keeps telling you “what if” because it’s just too difficult/painful, you are the one who’ll be miserable. It’s your dream. No one else’s.

Please share your thoughts. Do you feel drained after years of writing/querying? Have you lost your love for writing or you still haven’t found another occupation as gratifying as the written word? Do you still see scenes in your mind? Are total strangers (potential characters) talking to you?

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The Power of Persistence

"Nothing in this world can take the place of persistence. Talent will not; nothing is more common than unsuccessful people with talent. Genius will not; unrewarded genius is almost a proverb. Education will not; the world is full of educated derelicts. Persistence and determination alone are omnipotent. The slogan 'press on' has solved and always will solve the problems of the human race."
-Calvin Coolidge


It happens to all of us. When we least expect it, Self Doubt shows its ugly face. Anything can trigger it: a harsh critique, a rejection letter, months of silence from an editor or agent, a sarcastic question (“you’re still not published?”) Maybe it’s the blank page on our computer screens, or the awful realization that our manuscript presents serious problems and needs a major rewrite (and many of our beloved characters must be eradicated from the face of the Earth.)




With the visit of such an unwelcomed character (whom we shall call SD), it’s no surprise that so many writers give up their dream of seeing their names printed on the cover of a book. After all, there are easier, more practical and instantly-rewarding professions. Wouldn’t it be simpler to just quit and save yourself the heartache?

Yes, it would be simpler.

But…

There will always be that little splinter stuck inside your heart that from time to time—in the middle of a sleepless night, chopping vegetables in your kitchen, standing in the line of a grocery store—would make you wonder:

‘What if I had finished that novel? What if I had pursued more agents? I could have been published by now. After all,’ you think as you pick a copy of a new paperback from the nearest magazine rack, ‘if so and so got published (and as I can see, this is not a work of art) I could have done this. My writing and my plot were much better than this!’

“Yes,” Mr. Coolidge reminds you with his thunderous voice, “you may be more talented and educated and creative, but YOU ARE NOT PERSISTENT, while Mrs. So and So IS!”

President Calvin Coolidge, a very persistent man.

It is persistence that pushed Margaret Mitchell to continue pursuing publication after Gone With The Wind had been rejected by 38 publishers.

Margaret Mitchell typed all 1037 pages of the first edition of
Gone With The Wind without the assistance of our friend, the PC.

The same persistence that Louise May Alcott had after they told her to “stick to teaching.” Or Judy Blume after two years of rejections; or John Grisham after 16 publishers said no to A Time to Kill.

If Jodi Picoult had listened to her SD monster, she would have never sent another query letter after more than 100 agents refused to represent her.

All the books we would have missed if this
prolific writer had quit after 100 rejections.

It must have taken a lot of determination and persistence for D.H. Lawrence to continue seeking a publisher for Lady Chatterly’s Lover after one of them told him: “For your own sake do not publish this book.”

Or Stephen King, who got dozens of rejections for his first novel, Carrie, but didn’t believe the publisher who claimed that “Science Fiction with negative utopias doesn’t sell.” (It was also a good thing that his wife—another persistent cat—recovered his crumpled manuscript from the trash bin.)

First edition of Carrie (thank you Mrs. King for
picking through your husband’s trash!)

Without persistence, Gabriel García Marquez would not have typed every day for eighteen months, sold his car and pawned almost every household appliance to provide for his family before he emerged with the thirteen-hundred-page-manuscript that would become his masterpiece, One Hundred Years of Solitude.

Don Gabriel García Marquez and
the first edition of One Hundred Years of Solitude.
(Eighteen months of writing that must have felt like a hundred years.)

And we all know where persistence took J.K. Rowling. (And a certain publisher’s daughter who couldn’t resist the charm of Harry Potter and persuaded her father to publish his story.)

There is no other profession where President Coolidge’s words prove more true than in writing. The publishing world is filled with inspiring stories of now-famous authors whose dreams may have seemed hopeless and foolish at first. But where would literature be now had they not persisted?


What about you: Have you ever felt like quitting? How did you find the motivation to continue writing? Can you think of other examples where persistence paid off?

250 words.

‘I know it’s not easy to rid yourself of the notion that you need something important to commit to ... but the trick of life is to stop worrying about finding the perfect thing to commit to and commit to something, anything at all.’
--Merle Shain, author and broadcaster, 1935-1989.

Sometimes it’s the willingness to make a small commitment— when a big commitment just isn’t possible— that saves us. The longer you spend getting to know yourself as you wrangle with the empty page, the more you will see that some years are better than others. There are seasons in your life as an artist that are explosive, and the words rush onto the screen from your fingertips in a kind of furious bliss. But those seasons, for most, are the exception and not the rule.

There are other seasons— and sometimes they seem to stretch out in a rather unseasonable fashion— when the fits and starts of a once-reliable engine sputter out before taking hold. Momentum is like a dream from a more innocent time, one in which all you had to contend against was the cadence of dialogue— is it authentic?— or the color of your protagonist’s hair— can you genuinely relate to a redhead or does she have a short, brunette bob with the tips slightly longer toward the front, instead?

After you’ve penned your first novel, you feel you’ve scaled Everest and believe the industry is ready to toast your stamina. Hell, it’s finished. Surely it’s as good as the thousands upon thousands of stories which have already managed to make it into print. After the first revision comes the first submission. You’re shocked when the pass— even a provisional one— comes. So, you revise, again, and resubmit. And another pass comes and perhaps you start to wonder if you should shelve the project for a while. Or maybe you overhaul it.

Whatever the case, you are now in the thick of it— living the dark side of the dream. It’s the side that is often romanticized as being drenched in absinthe and smelling of cigarettes though the truth is far less sexy. Trying to break into the elite circle of publication is hard work, and if you’re really committed to seeing this thing through, you might even begin to hammer out your next manuscript while pitching the first.

And herein lies the rub.

Now you have industry feedback. Now you understand that you have to bear in mind truisms such as writing to where your passion meets the market— God help us. Now, you have tears. True confession: I cry when I query agents. I read essays on crafting the perfect pitch and the salt squeezes out of the corners of my eyes because the last time I wanted something so badly it was driving a hand-me-down Oldsmobile 88 and looking mighty tasty in broken-in jeans. At any rate, tapping out that next yarn after submission, for some, may not flow as easily. Mostly because whatever childlike enthusiasm you brought to the former project has been flattened a bit by its head-on collision with target demographics and branding and acceptable word count. The last panel of agents and editors at the conference claimed all you have to do is write the best novel of which you’re capable and let them handle the packaging. But the truth— you have learned— is that even before you’re signed you have to be both author and marketer, artist and salesman. And what can foster greater distaste for our tribe than to have to think commercial?

Scissoring to the proverbial chase, if you’ve arrived at the place where you’re all starts with no big finish— heck, no happy middle— then the key to mastering the maze, I hazard, is to make a commitment. It doesn’t really matter how you got a bit turned around, the vow to yourself’s the thing. And, ultimately, the promises you make to yourself are the ones on which you build a foundation. Then, a first level, next a spot where the windows go and, eventually, the drapes.

Think of this as my love letter to those of you who, at times, feel a bit small in the face of managing your careers in a seeming void. Being your own boss is both a wing and an albatross. So I say to you, today, do what you can— but do it every day. Whittle away at the slope one spoonful at a time, if a spoon is all you have for the moment. Perhaps, in the long run, it’s not about the glamour of having accomplished something big but the quiet dignity of having never given in— even when all you were capable of was 250 words a day. Until next time, dear reader.

Your,
-Aurora

Working for Free

A few weeks ago I ran into my OB/GYN at a restaurant. (Don’t worry, this story will not get weird or gross. I’m just trying to make a point, okay?) After kind salutations, looks of confusion and vague recognition, (“Remember me? I was 30 pounds heavier the last time you saw me!”) we started talking about each others’ lives. I asked her about her job and she asked what I was up to. I sighed (which I always do when asked this question) and babbled something about my web design classes at the community college. My husband (who was having lunch with me) told her I was a writer. I cringed at the forbidden word. Here I was, sitting in front of one of the most practical/economically-stable professionals talking about this job title that I don’t even know I’ve earned yet. She surprised me with her honest excitement about my chosen career path. But sure enough, the obligatory question ensued:

“Are you published?”

The obligatory answer (justification) followed.

“No, but a couple of agents and an editor are reading my work.”

She expressed admiration for my determination as she said she couldn’t take the delayed gratification a career in publishing represents.

I started thinking about the term “delayed gratification.” I don’t think I could begin to explain to a non-writer how gratifying it is to create a world of your own where you get to control every event, every word, and every movement a character makes. But how does this (guilty) pleasure measure in the concrete world if there is no monetary retribution?

There are many hard things about being a writer. Learning how a plot develops is one of them. Creating engaging characters is another. Being able to write believable and interesting dialogue is definitely a challenge. So is finding the perfect balance between a vivid description and long narration that can easily bore a reader out of his/her mind. But perhaps one of the hardest things for me is to call myself a “writer” and convince myself that what I do is valid in the eyes of society when I’m not getting paid.

So how do we keep going at times when it seems like NOBODY cares whether we write or not; times when we wonder if all these years of writing have been a waste of time. How do we find the motivation when there is no gratification other than our own pats on the back after we’ve written a masterful sentence—or the compliments of a nice writing partner? Should it be considered work if there is no monetary gain?

I don’t have an answer. I can only tell you what keeps me motivated:

1. The process of creating characters that fascinate me and accompany me everywhere I go.
2. Being absorbed in a wonderful setting.
3. Finding a solution to a conflict I established and didn’t know how to solve.
4. Getting an email every few weeks from an agent telling me she enjoyed my work and wants to read more.
5. Not finding fulfillment in anything other than writing.

And you, how do you keep motivated? Do you think it is valid to call yourself a writer if you haven’t earned a dime yet? How long should you spend developing your art/craft before you give up and become a “productive” citizen again? Are you productive if you’re not bringing cash home? And lastly, do you think it takes a special kind of person to be a writer? (A patient one, for sure!)