A Writer’s Labor Day
Writing is a labor.
It won’t usually break your back or make you perspire. There is generally no threat to your life or limb when you write, nor is there much need to lift 50 pounds at a time when you do it.
In most cases you don’t get dirty, have to travel long distances or get accredited or certified in order to write.
Yet make no mistake; writing is labor. Let nobody tell you otherwise.
Whether it be fiction or non-fiction, it is not always easy to delve into your own mind for hours at a time, day in and day out. Yes, there is fantasizing and brainstorming within the writing process for most people, but any true writer knows that to get anywhere, one cannot remain forever in those stages. One must actually commit words to paper or screen. One must wrestle with concepts, stories, settings, instructions, pleas and so on and confine them to a (usually) limited amount of words. Those words must be strung together in a fashion that is not only coherent from a grammatical standpoint but effective for the audience for which they are written. So the audience must also be taken into account. (Even if one writes first to please ones self, an audience eventually exists for most things we write.)
Even once all of that is done, we need to correct it. Make it smaller, make it faster or better or prettier, or less pretty, or break it into bullet points, or consolidate into a sentence. We need to capitalize on our “voice” but not isolate ourselves from potential readers. And when all of that is done, some of us have to begin the process of researching other people that we think are most likely to roll the dice with our work. We have to convince someone else that what we have created or intend to create is going to in some way serve them as much as it serves us.
And we have to do so, in many cases, on a deadline. Even when we do not have an official deadline, we must always be moving forward with what we are writing. And few of us are ever writing just one single thing at a time, so multiply everything I just said by however many things are being worked on for any given writer on any given day.
Then we do it again the next day, or at the very best, two days later. But usually the next day. And the next and the next. At least if we want to have anything to show for our identity as a writer.
And after all of that, most of the time nobody reads our stuff anyway.
Writers don’t always merely stroll about in their imagination, taking in the view. They mine it, and sort it out, and translate it (often imperfectly) for other people. That takes energy and dedication, and sometimes we writers don’t have either. It can be an exhausting process to summon them up when they elude us. It can drain us and make us feel flat to the world for a while, just like many other jobs and callings.
In short, as I said, writing is labor. I may not die from it, but it is work for me, even when I enjoy it. (And I do.) Remember that today when you read something.
An Open Letter to a Thoughtful Man
For the purposes of this open letter, the subject will be adressed as Mr. Kimble. -Ty
Dear Mr. Kimble,
I have one memory of you, but it is one of the most important memories of anything that I have in life.
You were a coworker of my father’s when he died. A short time later, maybe a week, you came to our house, with gifts for my sister and myself. I remember the pained look on your face when you got out of your car. I remember knowing why you may be feeling like that, even though I didn’t know who you were at the time. Just about everyone who came to see us in those days had a similar look on their faces.
Not that many people did come, and that is why all these decades later the memory of you coming with those gifts is so significant to me. Other coworkers of my father, friends of the family, even extended members of the family itself all sort of receded into the background in the weeks and months after my father died. I can’t say nobody else helped us at all, but those were lonely, empty times in that big house with only three people for a while. Empty of visitors, empty of supporters, empty of the slightest indication that most people appreciated the gravity of what happened. Empty of individuals that had known us for years and years.
Yet not empty of you and your gesture. I don’t know how long you knew my father, but I know that plenty of people had known him longer and better than you did. As I said, most of those people were nowhere to be found, scattered to the four winds in wake of his death. You came to the epicenter of grief. You made that choice, and it was an honorable one.
As was the choice to bring my sister and I gifts. I don’t remember what you brought my sister. I clearly remember that you brought me a Care Bear. Champ Bear to be exact. As a child I appreciated the toy, and part of me recognized that it was especially nice given the circumstances. I now of course understand how profound the consideration was on your part to offer it to me at my home.
I very much wish I still had the bear. Teens being what they are, making room for new stuff I at one point gave it away to Goodwill. Even then I appreciated the gesture looking back, but I regret not being sentimental enough about it to hold on to it physically. It was one of my big mistakes in such matters.
Yet I hold on to the memory and cherish the gesture now. It was heartfelt, rare, and impactful on my life even to this day, as so often the simplest gestures are.
So I thank you, Mr. Kimble, for the gift and the thought you showed in giving it to me. You hold, and will always hold a place of honor in my mind.
sincerely, Ty Unglebower
–This post is part of the Open Letter Continuum.
Four Ways to Work on Writing Without Writing
You don’t have to write every day. I’ve said it a million times on this blog and I still believe it. You absolutely must make regular progress on your writing, lest inertia put a stop to all of your endeavors. In many cases it’s easier to not do hard work than it is to do so, and if writing isn’t hard work for you, my guess is that you’re missing something.
So, I don’t subscribe to the “you must write every day” commandment so popular in the writing advice world. Write every other day. Or on the weekends. If you get the story or that book done, you’re a writer.
But if you feel you must work on something everyday, and yet don’t feel ready to write, remember there are all kinds of ways to be working on a story or novel that don’t involve the actual writing. So long as you progress in the creation of the story and don’t use these activities as a means of procrastination, I’ve found they are well worth the writers time on days when the writing itself just isn’t happening. Consider:
–Research. Of course, it’s the most famous, and has become the most common weapon of procrastinating writers. But you don’t have to be procrastinating in order to research. If you have a specific set of questions you need answered for your story, write them down, and research only the answers to same. You need to do it at some point anyway, why not today?
–Outlining. If that is, you believe in outlines. I often spend a day I’ve set aside for work almost solely on outlining. I can bridge plot gaps and come up with scenes that I didn’t know I needed before. Rarely do I outline and write a scene in the same day. I like to let the outline set, like wet cement, until it’s dry the following day and can be “walked on” as it were. I’m not afraid to change what the outline says if needs be, but outlining a chapter or two of a novel is working on said novel. Don’t let anybody tell you otherwise.
–Brainstorming. Again, this can be a time suck and a procrastination classic. That’s fine sometimes, of course, because it’s fun to do. Yet even a brainstorm can be productive if directed. Take whatever plot point you are having trouble with, and come up with 50 ways it could be solved. But remember to include even the most absurd solutions. Even if you are writing historical fiction, if an alien landing could solve the particular problem you are having, write it down on your brainstorm page, or whatever you’re using. Of course you won’t put that into a true historical novel, but if you let yourself entertain it, you are circling your ideas and your plot from every possible angle, digging as deep as you can into its nature. It may sound like a game, but once you come up with 50 or so possible solutions, no matter how crazy, it will feel like work. Fun work, but work. Work on your writing that isn’t actually writing.
-Read it. This depends to a great extent on your process. Some people, like myself, don’t like to look at my first draft of a longer piece until it’s totally finished. But with shorter pieces, I will sometimes read it over once or twice to see how it sounds, and what it’s doing. If i see a mistake to correct, or an idea to make it better, I will make the change, but the change is not the main reason for such readings. I go back and read a piece, or sometimes portions of a piece, to get myself into the mindset of my work. Even a writer can’t always jump instantly into the mood of something he’s working on. But by reading what you have so far, you’re not only detecting what needs to be revised at some point, but you are “working” on the piece by tempering yourself into it to ready yourself for writing more. Dipping a toe in the pool first, if you will. It can be especially effective if you read it out loud.
By no means are these the only things you can do to work on your writing without the actual writing. But I’ve found these are the four I most often fall back on, when I want to be working on a piece, but yet can’t gear up to actually write any given day. Literal writing is best and of course cannot be avoided forever, but better to be working on a piece, by the means above or others when I’m not writing, than to not be writing, and not be working on any aspect of the piece at all.
What other things might a writer do to work on a piece without the actual writing? Do you do any of these I’ve listed?
The Introverted Writer’s Dilemma
You readers of this blog should know by now that I’m an introvert, and happily so. I don’t consider myself, or any given introvert superior to extroverted types, as there are pluses and minuses to both temperaments. That extends to my writing as well.
The vast majority of time, I consider my introversion a plus as far as writing is concerned. I think introversion in general is a slight advantage when it comes to writing, especially fiction. Sort of like being white in chess is a slight advantage, though many brilliant games have been won playing black.
Introverts spend much time inside their own heads, exploring their own imaginations. We do this even if we have no specific creative agenda; we just gravitate inward much of the time. The benefits of this tendency to a writer, or a creative artist in general are obvious. Images, characters, scenarios, phrases, poems, all shining about in the jewel case of the introvert mind.
Yet once in a while it can work against a writer. Sometimes being an introvert means sinking so far into one’s own imagination that things become if not overwhelming than at least tiring. Instead of a specific idea for this story, we find ourselves confronting a nebulous (though usually friendly) monster called “Imagination!” When that happens it can sometimes be difficult for introverts, or at least this introvert, to make sense of what his subconscious is presenting. Like trying to listen to four songs at once. You need someone to direct traffic.
Or you have a coherent set of ideas, but you don’t know what to do with them. Is this a novel, a play, a poem? Is it just a random breeze blowing across my cheek as I hike through my own mind? An introvert writer can enjoy the chaos this entails, but must also be able to sort out the madness for a while, and come up for air so actual writing gets done. Usually this is simply a matter of discipline. But sometimes it is a difficult tide to stem.
As always I’m happy to be introverted, and I have no doubt that being so has been a huge net positive for my creative endeavors. But with the productivity and the positive sometimes comes the haphazard and the negative. Sometimes even the scary, if an introvert looks deep enough for too long into themselves. And even then there is probably some good material for writing, if we can sort it out.
You’re Not the Next…
So many articles that give advice to new writers contain the phrase, “you’re not the next…(insert famous author/wild overnight success story here.)” Not only is it a cliche to include this bit of advice, but it invariably leads me to the same response; “How the hell do you know I’m not the next…?”
I don’t know if I am the next superstar, and I don’t know if you are. I can even accept that statistically most people do not end up becoming superstars in any field of endeavor, writing included. Yet it seems that professional advice to aspiring writers, more often than most fields, is tempered right off the bat with admonitions that one cannot expect to be a great success. Writers are constantly reminded that they must only admire and envy the success of Super Author from afar, because they are never, ever going to attain it themselves. They tell us that we must be willing to not only languish in obscurity, but to love it.
That’s all well and good, fairy godmother, but what about those of us that live in the actual world?
Not that being a superstar is the only way to satisfy me as a writer. Yet I question the efficacy of making “You’re not the next…” an almost universal proviso when making suggestions to writers. (And the best anyone anywhere can offer is suggestions; the writing world and the reading public are unpredictable in so many ways.) If I should become a success, that advice is going to look silly.
It should go without saying that Super Author was not Super Author, until they were. They were no more likely to be the next Super Author when they were still Obscure Author than you or I am. Yet there they are today, one of the many names that completes the phrase, “You’re not the next…”
I of course admit that there are certain traits or actions that might have contributed to the success of Super Author. But then again, let’s be honest here, sometimes there are no traits or formulas, or qualities. Sometimes people just write themselves into 300 daily sex fantasies with their favorite boy band and become Super Author. Is an industry wherein this happens the sort of place where we should be reminding everyone that their odds of making it are next to zero? In a world where writing bad fan fiction about a bad set of books brings about one of the best selling novels of the last 20 years, telling new writers to eliminate even the hope of fame is laughable.
You know what, writers advice columns? I think we get it. Message received. Point made. Chapter read and lesson learned; you don’t want any of us to assume we will be successful. You don’t think we have what takes to be “the next…”. Got it. We’ll read your rules and guidelines if that makes you happy. We appreciate your desire to advise us, we really do. But we’re not stupid either, and we see, just about once a month if not more, somebody, somewhere ignoring everything you say and becoming in the process, (you guessed it), “the next…”
So I think it’s time to do away with that proviso. One, most writers are not stupid, so they know what the score is. Two, it would be nice if advice and guidance consisted on HOW to become “the next…” as opposed to being weighed down from the first sentence with warnings that we haven’t got a prayer of being “the next…”. True, the advice still may not make us Super Author. But then again it might. Or something else might. Or none of it will. That’s the point I’m making. Therefore, on behalf of every new or emerging author out there that finds “You’re not the next…” to be a bit disingenuous, I request that you at least spell my name right, should I become Super Author, when you write advice that begins with, “You’re not the next Ty Unglebower.”
Ty Unglebower 