Joseph Grammer's Blog - Posts Tagged "challenge"
In Review: My Deplorable Writing Career
So my girlfriend Anna challenged me to look at the last year of my life and see how I have evolved in my "business," which, for better or worse, is writing. At first my amygdala freaked out and electrified me with stress, but sitting at my desk now, with a bunch of baby saguaro cactus beside me (they never complain), I feel grateful for the opportunity.
A year ago today was October 7, 2013. During that time I was frantically writing Cocoon Kids, my self-published book of short stories, and assuming my life depended on its objective quality. I was an idiot. I am an idiot now, but back then, I am happy to say, I was a much feebler one.
Every word on the page terrified me, because it was a word someone else would read (ha) and judge to be lacking in some major category. My plots would be predictable, my characters flat, my dialogue the worst kind of daytime-TV cliche ("Pass the ham, Sally," Grant Shadow said. "Oh never mind, I love you like a farmer loves mowing hay in the crisp fall."). In short, I was a prisoner of stupid, meaningless fear: great job!
I could look back at that younger Joe (nice biceps) and scorn him for his naivete, but I won't, too much. He had his good points. He cared a lot about his stories, and he did his best to bring out the love and pain and inherent human grossness in each person. Most of the time he failed, but once in a while a sentence came through and achieved something moderately engaging.
My favorite story, and what seems to be readers' (thank you for existing, you few worthy humans) favorite story, is "A Squid for Mr. Calaway," which concerns the eponymous hero as he leaves his therapist's office in downtown Manhattan and proceeds to buy a package of squid for dinner. Only he loves the squid. In fact, it is the only thing he truly cares about. When he meets his acquaintance Barry on the street, the two trade insults and random hypotheticals until Calaway gets embarrassed and leaves. The ending is the strangest part, and I give infinite thanks to Anna for helping me tone it down from its original, more unpleasant tone.
My favorite sentence from this story (wow I am a self-indulgent bastard): "Into the dusk with my mollusks."
There we are. Now I can properly trash myself. The rest of the book is a hit-or-miss collection that is vaguely linked by the themes of isolation and connection. A common response from people who read it was, "It was hard to tell who was speaking." Another: "I had to read it two or three times to understand what happened" (thank you for even reading it once, you fucking rad cherubim). I agree with these concerns, especially when I revisit the stories and puzzle over the dense conversations. What was I trying to accomplish?
Nothing special, really; I was just bad at writing.
And now?
Now, I can safely say, I am better, but so far away from "good" it is not yet taking my calls.
However, in the space between 10/7/13 and now, I have befriended other writers, attended an Iowa Summer Festival Writing Conference, finished my novel, sent it to agents (to be rejected), and, most importantly, I have written a ton of shitty stories. Most of them are dead in a folder somewhere, but a few hang around, waiting for me to hurl them at magazines or people (magazines are people, too, I'm not judging). I have also read up on publishing contracts, practiced and failed at marketing campaigns, and sold a few books online. I no longer feel terrible about calling my writing a "business"; it just happens to be a failing one right now.
So. The two things I have done well, in my opinion, are these: 1.) writing every day and 2.) showing my work to other people for critique.
Of the things I have not done well, I present only a small selection: 1.) watching movies all day, 2.) stressing out over query letters so much I don't send them for months, 3.) over-editing my book because I'm afraid of letting it go, 4.) getting angry when people ask me what my book is "about" because I haven't done the work to distill a good pitch for it, 5.) not telling people I'm a "writer" when they ask what I do, 6.) avoiding human interaction entirely.
Well, if you've made it this far, thank you. I hope my self-review was marginally entertaining; but if not, I leave you with the inimitable and uplifting Sly and the Family Stone.
A year ago today was October 7, 2013. During that time I was frantically writing Cocoon Kids, my self-published book of short stories, and assuming my life depended on its objective quality. I was an idiot. I am an idiot now, but back then, I am happy to say, I was a much feebler one.
Every word on the page terrified me, because it was a word someone else would read (ha) and judge to be lacking in some major category. My plots would be predictable, my characters flat, my dialogue the worst kind of daytime-TV cliche ("Pass the ham, Sally," Grant Shadow said. "Oh never mind, I love you like a farmer loves mowing hay in the crisp fall."). In short, I was a prisoner of stupid, meaningless fear: great job!
I could look back at that younger Joe (nice biceps) and scorn him for his naivete, but I won't, too much. He had his good points. He cared a lot about his stories, and he did his best to bring out the love and pain and inherent human grossness in each person. Most of the time he failed, but once in a while a sentence came through and achieved something moderately engaging.
My favorite story, and what seems to be readers' (thank you for existing, you few worthy humans) favorite story, is "A Squid for Mr. Calaway," which concerns the eponymous hero as he leaves his therapist's office in downtown Manhattan and proceeds to buy a package of squid for dinner. Only he loves the squid. In fact, it is the only thing he truly cares about. When he meets his acquaintance Barry on the street, the two trade insults and random hypotheticals until Calaway gets embarrassed and leaves. The ending is the strangest part, and I give infinite thanks to Anna for helping me tone it down from its original, more unpleasant tone.
My favorite sentence from this story (wow I am a self-indulgent bastard): "Into the dusk with my mollusks."
There we are. Now I can properly trash myself. The rest of the book is a hit-or-miss collection that is vaguely linked by the themes of isolation and connection. A common response from people who read it was, "It was hard to tell who was speaking." Another: "I had to read it two or three times to understand what happened" (thank you for even reading it once, you fucking rad cherubim). I agree with these concerns, especially when I revisit the stories and puzzle over the dense conversations. What was I trying to accomplish?
Nothing special, really; I was just bad at writing.
And now?
Now, I can safely say, I am better, but so far away from "good" it is not yet taking my calls.
However, in the space between 10/7/13 and now, I have befriended other writers, attended an Iowa Summer Festival Writing Conference, finished my novel, sent it to agents (to be rejected), and, most importantly, I have written a ton of shitty stories. Most of them are dead in a folder somewhere, but a few hang around, waiting for me to hurl them at magazines or people (magazines are people, too, I'm not judging). I have also read up on publishing contracts, practiced and failed at marketing campaigns, and sold a few books online. I no longer feel terrible about calling my writing a "business"; it just happens to be a failing one right now.
So. The two things I have done well, in my opinion, are these: 1.) writing every day and 2.) showing my work to other people for critique.
Of the things I have not done well, I present only a small selection: 1.) watching movies all day, 2.) stressing out over query letters so much I don't send them for months, 3.) over-editing my book because I'm afraid of letting it go, 4.) getting angry when people ask me what my book is "about" because I haven't done the work to distill a good pitch for it, 5.) not telling people I'm a "writer" when they ask what I do, 6.) avoiding human interaction entirely.
Well, if you've made it this far, thank you. I hope my self-review was marginally entertaining; but if not, I leave you with the inimitable and uplifting Sly and the Family Stone.
