Life is ablaze with sunshine! When it isn't steeped in gloom.
Writers are emotional creatures who wind themselves up for countless reasons. Small wonder readers often get fed up with us. Sometimes I get fed up with myself.Do the following sound familiar?
I have a new idea/contract/cover/release/blog tour! J I’m going to a conference! J I’m going as an author instead of a nobody! J J An author who’ll be in the spotlight, like Liza Minnelli in Cabaret! J J J I can’t go to this conference. L But I’m going to that conference! J I scored a great story prompt at Goodreads! J I didn’t score a story prompt. L I got a glowing review! J I got an ickycaca review from a poopbutt who doesn’t understand my work. L I won a contest! J I lost a contest. L I’m in DABWAHAHAHAHA although I have no clue how I got there or even what it is! J I hate those stupid people who run that stupid tournament ‘cause they're poopbutts who play favorites. LReaders and reviewers love me! J Readers and reviewers don’t love me enough. LReaders and reviewers are brainless poopbutts who ignore me. L L I don’t deserve love because I’m a brainless poopbutt. L
A lot of this kind of stuff has been swirling through social media lately. Since I’ve contributed to the whirlwind, I figured it’s time to step away and go in search of a precious and elusive commodity: reality.
Ah, I think I see it there, at my local resale shop!
Every time I go to a resale shop, I gravitate to the book section. Most of you probably do. And at some point I start to mourn all the dozens of "masterpieces," with beat-up dustjackets or no jackets at all, that are doomed to languish unnoticed on the shelves. I think of the men and women who penned them, how thrilled and proud they were to get published -- then how, ten or thirty or fifty years later, they fell into total, impenetrable obscurity.
Imagine how Edna Winchester’s ego swelled when A Chalice of Rubies was issued. Did she celebrate? Sure she did. Maybe donned her best lemon-yellow cocktail suit with rhinestone buttons and went to a nice restaurant with her husband. Maybe drank one-too-many glasses of champagne afterward. Her mild hangover was worth it, though. A Chalice of Rubies made her that special being called an “author.”
But that was in 1962. Regardless of Edna’s creation being offered by the Book of the Month Club as an alternate selection, regardless of it being condensed for Reader’s Digest, regardless of raves and pans and an award for Best Historical Novel of the Year by the Crown and Quill Writers’ Guild, A Chalice of Rubies now sits -- ragged, ignored, and leaning piteously -- on a warped and dusty shelf. Nobody’s willing to pay so much as a dime for it. Nobody’s even heard of Edna Winchester. In fact, nobody other than Edna's friends and family have heard of her since 1974.So, my writer friends, if you ever find yourselves fussing over reviews, either good or bad, or feeling pumped up by a contest win or deflated by a contest loss; if you’re ever tempted to pat yourselves on the back or kick yourselves in the ass because of your success or lack thereof . . . go to a garage sale or any store that sells other people's unwanted crap. Scan the books. Note how many author names you don’t recognize. Note how many books couldn’t interest you less. Pick up one that's bound in cheap, paper-covered boards or barely clinging to a faded and tattered dustjacket, and think about its short journey from pride-and-joy to piece of shit.
Believe me, you’ll get a humbling adjustment in perspective. You'll realize the vast majority of fiction is throwaway fiction. Nothing you do, don’t do, are, aren’t, score, don’t score as a writer will ever seem quite so earth-shattering anymore.
Until, of course, that next release or review or conference or contest . . .
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True, Mara. That was basically my point, and I was making it as much for myself as for anyone else. We writers of genre fiction need to stop fussing over every little bump and rut in our paths (something so many of us do so frequently!) By the same token, we shouldn't let small, passing triumphs go to our heads and make us think we're "all that." Taking ourselves too seriously isn't only off-putting to readers, it's pretty ridiculous. Our work is not destined to echo down the corridors of literary history, and the more we keep that in mind, the more content we'll be.
I periodically have to remind myself to appreciate and be humbled by whatever pleasure I do bring to readers -- no matter how fleeting it might be. Because that's what counts.
K.Z. wrote: "True, Mara. That was basically my point, and I was making it as much for myself as for anyone else.
We writers of genre fiction need to stop fussing over every little bump and rut in our paths (s..."
After I posted, I realized you needed no help whatsoever in making your point and I was going off on a tangent. :D I fuss over every bump and rut as much as the next writer (and again, I think I posted as much to reassure myself that there's a greater goal than number of copies sold.)
And it's sometimes pretty hard to not take ourselves too seriously. We see ourselves as sharing our vision with others, we want that connection, and when we feel disregarded, it's crushing and brutal. And of course we have to wave it off like it's no big deal and move on (as people have to do in plenty of professions besides ours) and most of the time we're all pretty good about burying or blowing off the hurts and disappointments. But dealing with it the right way is a trick you have to learn, too, and just like with writing, it takes some of us longer to learn it.
That's why I always feel bad for writers who fall apart so publicly. I've had my rough moments online, both when I first started and even in the past few years, and I wish I'd done some things differently. I know a lot of these writers will get around to feeling the same way at some point (with any luck, before they destroy their careers.)
Writing is so tied up in who we are, it's such a vulnerable corner of our hearts laid out on public display, it takes superhuman effort to deal with both ruts and triumphs in an even-handed way. I want to forgive all of us for failing to do so now and again.
We writers of genre fiction need to stop fussing over every little bump and rut in our paths (s..."
After I posted, I realized you needed no help whatsoever in making your point and I was going off on a tangent. :D I fuss over every bump and rut as much as the next writer (and again, I think I posted as much to reassure myself that there's a greater goal than number of copies sold.)
And it's sometimes pretty hard to not take ourselves too seriously. We see ourselves as sharing our vision with others, we want that connection, and when we feel disregarded, it's crushing and brutal. And of course we have to wave it off like it's no big deal and move on (as people have to do in plenty of professions besides ours) and most of the time we're all pretty good about burying or blowing off the hurts and disappointments. But dealing with it the right way is a trick you have to learn, too, and just like with writing, it takes some of us longer to learn it.
That's why I always feel bad for writers who fall apart so publicly. I've had my rough moments online, both when I first started and even in the past few years, and I wish I'd done some things differently. I know a lot of these writers will get around to feeling the same way at some point (with any luck, before they destroy their careers.)
Writing is so tied up in who we are, it's such a vulnerable corner of our hearts laid out on public display, it takes superhuman effort to deal with both ruts and triumphs in an even-handed way. I want to forgive all of us for failing to do so now and again.
Edna Winchester's moment in the sun may have passed, but she contributed. She shared her vision and she probably experienced the joy of hearing from readers and knowing that something she wrote spoke to them.
Those are the moments that stay with you, and make all the hours of writing and re-writing worth it.
Anyway, ending up in the garage sale isn't so bad.:) I read piles of garage sale books when I was a poor kid with little spending money, and they had a part in shaping my view of the world and my appreciation of writers and reading. God bless libraries and garage sales.