Catherine Egan's Blog - Posts Tagged "how-lucky-am-i"
How to support a Young Writer
Dear Blog,
When I was six years old I told my grandmother that I was going to be a writer. We were sitting at the dining room table and the first chapter of my first novel, written in pencil and illustrated in brown crayon (a bold artistic choice) lay on the table between us. Now, my grandmother knows a thing or two (many things, really - maybe too many things!) about writers and about the life of the artist. She told me very seriously how much work it would be, that once I had finished my first draft (that was the first time I had ever heard the word "draft"), I would need to rewrite it. Completely. Four, five, maybe six times. I looked at my beloved, PERFECT first chapter, and said: "But." She said "There will be hundreds of rejections. HUNDREDS." I had no idea what that meant, but I took her point: this writing thing was no joke; it was not for the faint of heart. Well, I was not faint of heart. She pointed at my chapter, which she had read very carefully and offered comments on, both complimentary and critical: "First, you need to finish this." And I did.
Ten years later, my grandmother and I were out for lunch at a nice restaurant on Granville island. We ate outside, where we could see the boats in the harbour and the mountains rising up across the bay. She didn't tell me how worried everybody was. She didn't tell me I looked awful, or that I was being awful, or that I was terrifying the people who loved me. She didn't try to draw me out or ask me questions, either. She talked about my writing. She talked about rage and confusion as useful, if I knew what to do with them. She told me stories about people she'd known who used their talents and people who squandered them. She talked about her own gift and how it shaped her life, what it had given her and what it had taken away. She talked about working hard and made it sound worth doing, and she talked about making a living, and I've never forgotten any of it.
Looking back, nobody ever laughed at me in a "how-cute" sort of way when I declared my intent, at a chubby-cheeked age, to be a writer. Nobody told me it might not work out. Nor did they joke about movies and millions the way many kind friends do now I've got a book out. If writing has been something joyful all my life and if rejection has never held much sting, that is likely thanks to my family. You can only think of it as "toiling in obscurity" if the reward for your toil is assumed to be the opposite of obscurity. If the primary goal is the story the toil results in, satisfaction comes from doing it, and you don't depend on anyone for that. You just do it, in obscurity or, you know, wherever.
Of course I did and do fantasize about making a living at this. Of course I want people to read my stories - as many people as possible! Of course I find myself disappointed by my own limitations and feel I am failing to write the book I want to write. But then there are always the stories I haven't written yet, still-perfect, shimmering like mirages in the distance, and I am always crawling towards them across the sand, sure that I am getting better at this. As long as I keep doing it.
As far as I'm concerned the writing life is all pluses, this particular glass is always half full, and making a story is one of the greatest joys I know.
My grandmother was a violin prodigy. Her experience of being young and gifted was complicated and full of anxiety and, for better or for worse, obscurity had no part in it. Of course, she was very young, and very gifted, which is unusual. Still, she took my own expression of artistic ambition at the age of six entirely seriously - why not? she'd had a career at my age - and along with my entire family she offered a vision of the Life Of The Artist that was both positive and practical. So if you are wondering how to support the young writer in your life (and this could apply to any artist, of any age) here is the checklist of what I was lucky enough to grow up with:
1. If they are serious, take them seriously.
2. If they know what money is, they are old enough to be told that they will almost certainly need to earn it ... doing something else.
3. If they are old enough for #2, they are old enough to hear that rejection is a thing, and they will experience it if they put their work out there, and it's no big deal.
4. Praise their drive and work ethic. Put practice above talent.
5. Be positive. Passion and / or talent is a gift and can be a source of huge joy. Let them know you value and respect and admire their gift and hope they will keep at it.
5. Be honest when the work is good and when it isn't.
6. Talk about mastery of their craft as the great goal. Success in the wider world is gravy.
7. Be happy for them. If you can handle rejection, and if you can make a living in one way or another, then the writer's life is the best life of all.
Yours, still loving the work,
Catherine
When I was six years old I told my grandmother that I was going to be a writer. We were sitting at the dining room table and the first chapter of my first novel, written in pencil and illustrated in brown crayon (a bold artistic choice) lay on the table between us. Now, my grandmother knows a thing or two (many things, really - maybe too many things!) about writers and about the life of the artist. She told me very seriously how much work it would be, that once I had finished my first draft (that was the first time I had ever heard the word "draft"), I would need to rewrite it. Completely. Four, five, maybe six times. I looked at my beloved, PERFECT first chapter, and said: "But." She said "There will be hundreds of rejections. HUNDREDS." I had no idea what that meant, but I took her point: this writing thing was no joke; it was not for the faint of heart. Well, I was not faint of heart. She pointed at my chapter, which she had read very carefully and offered comments on, both complimentary and critical: "First, you need to finish this." And I did.
Ten years later, my grandmother and I were out for lunch at a nice restaurant on Granville island. We ate outside, where we could see the boats in the harbour and the mountains rising up across the bay. She didn't tell me how worried everybody was. She didn't tell me I looked awful, or that I was being awful, or that I was terrifying the people who loved me. She didn't try to draw me out or ask me questions, either. She talked about my writing. She talked about rage and confusion as useful, if I knew what to do with them. She told me stories about people she'd known who used their talents and people who squandered them. She talked about her own gift and how it shaped her life, what it had given her and what it had taken away. She talked about working hard and made it sound worth doing, and she talked about making a living, and I've never forgotten any of it.
Looking back, nobody ever laughed at me in a "how-cute" sort of way when I declared my intent, at a chubby-cheeked age, to be a writer. Nobody told me it might not work out. Nor did they joke about movies and millions the way many kind friends do now I've got a book out. If writing has been something joyful all my life and if rejection has never held much sting, that is likely thanks to my family. You can only think of it as "toiling in obscurity" if the reward for your toil is assumed to be the opposite of obscurity. If the primary goal is the story the toil results in, satisfaction comes from doing it, and you don't depend on anyone for that. You just do it, in obscurity or, you know, wherever.
Of course I did and do fantasize about making a living at this. Of course I want people to read my stories - as many people as possible! Of course I find myself disappointed by my own limitations and feel I am failing to write the book I want to write. But then there are always the stories I haven't written yet, still-perfect, shimmering like mirages in the distance, and I am always crawling towards them across the sand, sure that I am getting better at this. As long as I keep doing it.
As far as I'm concerned the writing life is all pluses, this particular glass is always half full, and making a story is one of the greatest joys I know.
My grandmother was a violin prodigy. Her experience of being young and gifted was complicated and full of anxiety and, for better or for worse, obscurity had no part in it. Of course, she was very young, and very gifted, which is unusual. Still, she took my own expression of artistic ambition at the age of six entirely seriously - why not? she'd had a career at my age - and along with my entire family she offered a vision of the Life Of The Artist that was both positive and practical. So if you are wondering how to support the young writer in your life (and this could apply to any artist, of any age) here is the checklist of what I was lucky enough to grow up with:
1. If they are serious, take them seriously.
2. If they know what money is, they are old enough to be told that they will almost certainly need to earn it ... doing something else.
3. If they are old enough for #2, they are old enough to hear that rejection is a thing, and they will experience it if they put their work out there, and it's no big deal.
4. Praise their drive and work ethic. Put practice above talent.
5. Be positive. Passion and / or talent is a gift and can be a source of huge joy. Let them know you value and respect and admire their gift and hope they will keep at it.
5. Be honest when the work is good and when it isn't.
6. Talk about mastery of their craft as the great goal. Success in the wider world is gravy.
7. Be happy for them. If you can handle rejection, and if you can make a living in one way or another, then the writer's life is the best life of all.
Yours, still loving the work,
Catherine
