WRITERS AT WORK

WRITERS AT WORK
Sandy Asher and David Harrison

Friday, December 31, 2010

Topic 4: Dealing with Editorial Suggestions

Response 1: David

If an emerging writer sends out enough manuscripts, sooner or later an editor may jot a brief note on the rejection slip. Hopefully, it will be a helpful note even if it’s nothing more than, “Keep trying us,” or “Better,” or “If you rework this for more action, I would read it again.”

Harry Mark Petrakis taught the art of the short story one summer when I attended his workshop at Indiana University in Bloomington. He told us about his early days when he set his sights on getting a story accepted by Atlantic Monthly. He submitted one story after another for years and every one came back without comment. At some point when he was growing discouraged, a brief editorial comment re-energized him and kept him going. I think the comment was, “This one is better,” or maybe it was, “Don’t give up.” Anyway, he went on to publish numerous stories with Atlantic Monthly and elsewhere and loved to recall how much that editor’s note helped him along the way.

But let’s get back to the type of comment that offers specific suggestions. I’m not talking about editorial direction given after a contract is signed. Sandy or I will deal with that scenario later. For now I’m sticking with the kind of free advice that comes back with a rejection. What if the comment you receive suggests that your masterpiece is too long or too short or needs more dialogue or the second chapter needs to be thrown out entirely and a new one written? What if this person you don’t know, sitting at a desk in an office you’ve never visited, offers advice that requires you to rethink your basic premise or essentially rework your entire piece without any assurance that you’ll be accepted when you’ve finished?

Such dilemmas happen. If it hasn’t happened to you already, your turn may be coming. What should you do? How much should you trust this stranger who seems to mean well and takes the time to tell you how to make your script more acceptable, at least to that house? Other authors may respond to this differently, but my rule was always simple. If an editor opens the door the barest crack, go for the light. If you have a real, live person on the other end willing to give you some advice, take it. Not out the window. Not if it’s something you simply find too repugnant to do. Not if it goes against everything you stand for and you would lose sleep over it and feel compromised. Not if standing on pride is more important to you than getting published. I don’t remember ever suffering from any of those objections. I figured it was an opportunity to be published and I had nothing to lose but a few more hours and a few more words.

My position was that I knew more about myself than the editor but the editor knew more about my manuscript’s chances for being published than I did. If you follow the same practice that Sandy and I have suggested in earlier segments of WRITERS AT WORK and keep a list of houses where you’ll send your manuscript if it comes back from its current reading, then you may decide to ignore the helpful editor’s advice long enough to try a few more houses. Or you may choose to jump at the chance to work with the editor before she or he moves on to other projects and becomes too bogged down to get back to you again before your hair turns gray(er).

Remember that not all editors are equal and not all houses look for the same kind of work to publish. Before you agree to give your story a complete overhaul, it will pay to seek a bit more assurance that this editor of yours is fairly serious about the free advice you keep holding in your hand and biting your lip over. But as a general rule, I prefer to have a positive relationship with that person at that desk in that office. Many of my books have developed because of such relationships. I say go for the light.

Sandy, over to you.

David

Response 2: Sandy

Ah, yes, David, those sometimes thoughtful, often cryptic messages that editors tack onto rejection slips. Those are the rejection slips I save, because those editors have noticed me and I may just want to notice them back.

I talked a bit in our last go-round about how to interpret those comments and suggestions. But that was all about reading between THEIR lines and figuring out what THEY’RE trying to say. There’s also the challenge of reading between my own lines and making sure I know exactly what I’m trying to say. Then I can decide whether those particular comments and suggestions are going to help me clarify what I’ve written, or discover I really should be writing something else (it happens!), or mess up what I want to say entirely.

I realized long ago that a story is only half written when I’ve put it down on paper; the other half is created out of what each reader brings to it from his or her personality, tastes, and life experience. Sometimes what a reader brings, even a highly experienced reader, is not helpful. Sometimes it’s very helpful. I’ve learned that I need to be the judge of that.

True stories that illustrate my point: The first has to do with a YA novel I was writing just about the time the bottom fell out of the YA market. Editors were becoming very cautious and, for the first time in my experience, were insisting that even established authors do considerable revision before a contract could be offered. In fact, the contract often didn’t arrive even after the considerable revision. (Sad to say, though the YA bottom has been in good repair of late, this is a trend that has not gone away.)

My novel centered on a young teenager dealing with an aging dog while also mourning the loss of her mother and adjusting to the changes in her sister and her father. Over time, the manuscript went to several editors. Each saw enough strength in it to offer detailed suggestions and an invitation to resubmit. One liked the mourning strand of the story, but disliked the dog strand. Another wept copious tears over the dog, but didn’t care for the sister and father situations. A third related strongly to the father but not to the sister or the dog...You get the picture. Eager for publication in hard times, I revised. And I revised. And I revised. Until I could no longer remember what the story had meant to me in the first place. Though there was one more “If you revise, I’d like another look” editorial letter, I didn’t have the heart or the will to go on. The manuscript has long been buried in my basement. R.I.P.

The other story makes me smile to this day. It’s about the genesis of Too Many Frogs!, possibly my most successful book ever. As required by contract, my agent submitted the manuscript to the editor who’d done my previous picture book, Stella’s Dancing Days. She liked it. Not enough to offer a contract right off, but she saw room for improvement. I agreed with her suggestions and rewrote accordingly. Yes, she felt it was better, but not quite “there” yet. Still in agreement, I rewrote again. Yes, yes, much improved, but maybe...? Sure, why not, said I, and went at it once again.

The Surprise Ending: Yes, yes, yes, it was improved, and it was good. But it just “wasn’t for her.” Can’t argue with that. So my agent sent the manuscript off to Philomel, where editor Michael Green snapped it up. Some time later, I was in New York City and stopped by his office to say hello. “You know,” he said, “this is the first time I’ve ever received a manuscript that didn’t require any editing or revision.”

I didn’t say a word. Just smiled. Smiling still.

Which brings me to one last word, David, about that list of publishers appropriate to each manuscript. In this era of multiple submissions, it’s tempting to send the story to everyone at once. I say, “Resist that temptation!” One or two or maybe three at a time are enough. That way, if Editor A or B or C writes a really helpful comment on a rejection slip, a comment bound to do your story—and your heart—good, you can use that insight to revise and impress Editor D!

Response 3: David

Hi, Sandy. I liked your closing advice last week about not sending to everyone on our list before we’ve given ourselves a chance to benefit from editorial comments and suggestions that might improve our story and our chances. I don’t know about you, but one way I can tell that I’ve grown more patient and open over the years is that I’m more willing now to think carefully about the pros and cons of advice from an editor (or anyone else for that matter).

One of my writer friends questions the merit of attending writers’ conferences. I think it’s always a good idea to put ourselves in places where we have opportunities to visit with editors and hear more about what they seek in a manuscript. I bet at one time or another we’ve all been guilty of sending a story to an editor who is not in that market. Or an editor who just recently published a similar story. Or an editor who simply doesn’t like animals that talk. Remarks from editors who are basically not interested are likely to be short and to the point, and not necessarily aimed at improving our work.

On the other hand, when I go to New York each year to make appointments with editors with whom I’m working on a project, I always come away with a clearer sense of what is going on in their world. Once I have a contract on a book, things change from general comments to specific ones. At this point I’m even more likely to follow advice when I’m working with my editor-partner. Recently I completed a manuscript, submitted it, and received my editor’s suggestions.

His general comment was filled with enough praise to send me strutting around the house for a few minutes feeling the rush. Then I opened the attachment and took a long look at those specific and inevitable critical suggestions. Why that! Who does he...How? No I can’t do that!...Impossible! Hmmm. This makes me so...Hmmm. Well that makes sense. I’ll be darned. Oh come on! Hmmm. I do like that better. Huh. Oookay, let’s start at the beginning.

Sandy, I don’t know what percentage of the editor’s ideas I eventually adapt into the revised manuscript. It’s a significant number. And not all of the good ideas come from the editor. One time I wrote a poem about a ladybug with a beard and made the crack that I could tell it was no lady bug. The copy editor sweetly reminded me that some women do indeed sport quite a lot of hair and that her hirsute daughter was sometimes teased by the boys. I apologized for my thoughtlessness and insensitivity and wrote a different poem.

I guess the issue of how we respond to suggestions about our work—whether from an editor, a spouse, or writing buddy—boils down to this: Does the suggestion make sense to me? Will I like the work better after making the change? And do I think the quality of the story will benefit?

Back to you to wrap up.

Response 4: Sandy

Editorial suggestions AFTER the contract is signed? Who knew?

We all thought that after “yes” came “and they lived happily ever after.” Right?

Uh...’fraid not.

David, you described that head-spinning response to editorial communication so well—euphoria (She loves it!), disbelief (She wants me to change it?), and slow realization (Well, maybe she does have a point there...or two...or three...).

My personal favorite example is a four-page, single-spaced letter I received from Bebe Willoughby, the editor who worked with me on Just Like Jenny and many other books back in the days when such letters were delivered by snail. I still carry the letter with me to show around at workshops. Just Like Jenny was my third YA novel, but it was Different. Or so I thought. It inspired a bit of an auction among publishers, a head-swelling, once-in-a-lifetime situation that led me to believe the book was already as perfect as perfect could be. The first page of Bebe’s letter confirmed that it was, indeed, pretty darn good. The next three pages (single-spaced, remember) were filled with questions and suggestions for rethinking and revising it.

I went ballistic. “What is wrong with these people? They said they loved the book! They gave me a two-book contract! And now they want me to change the whole thing? That’s crazy! I can’t do it! I won’t do it!”

My agent, the late, great Claire Smith, heard me out and firmly instructed me to calm down, reread my manuscript, and then reread the letter. So I did. And slowly but surely, I came to understand that Bebe wasn’t forcing me to make a wrong manuscript right. She was helping me to make a good manuscript better. As only a totally objective, experienced, knowledgeable reader—not a friend, teacher, spouse, or neighbor, not even a colleague—can do.

So now when editors are busier than ever and not always able to give each and every manuscript their full attention, I worry. I’d rather have an editor call my attention to problems before publication than have a critic or, worse yet, reader catch me out later. I’ve learned to cherish that objective response, not just the opening love letter, but the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, every single-spaced page of it.

That doesn’t mean I follow every directive slavishly, or even willingly and joyfully. I tend to adore the ones that turn on spotlights in my head, illuminating quick and easy fixes that make the story amazingly better. I tend to balk and grow sullen over the ones that show me something’s got to be done but leave me in the dark, trying to figure out exactly what and how all by myself. (Have I mentioned earlier in these chats that I’m basically lazy?)

I’ve also been known to defend my words, politely, against suggestions that make no sense to me at all. If I can make a good enough argument as to why not, the editor will usually accept my preference. An example: In my picture book Stella’s Dancing Days, Stella starts off as a kitten who loves to dance. Time passes, she grows up, gets busy with other things, and dances less. The human beings in her life miss her dancing days. But, I wrote, “Stella did not miss her dancing days.” The editor asked me to revise that sentence so that Stella would miss her dancing days, too, because not missing them sounded harsh. I thought about it, as I do all editorial insights. Finally, I said, “No. First of all, Stella is a cat and cats are not nostalgic about their kittenhoods. They live in the moment. Second of all, Stella represents her young readers, who are not nostalgic about their babyhoods. They won’t find it harsh that Stella doesn’t miss her dancing days. They’ll understand she’s simply far more interested in growing up—just as they are.”

The editor understood. The children understood. And Stella eventually has six kittens—three boys and three girls—who all love to dance.

Speaking of dancing, David, it’s my turn to lead! If you agree, I’ll tackle “The Perils and Joys of Writing in Different Genres” next.

Topic 3: The Reality of Rejection
What I Love about Rejections
by guest Mara Rockliff

Okay, nobody really loves rejections.

But when that storm cloud of rejection drives its icy needles down my neck and soaks my socks, here are the hints of silver lining that I spy:

Rejections are fun!

Okay, not always. But sometimes they can be pretty hilarious, like the time I sent out a picture book story and it was rejected—two and a half years later. (With a form rejection!) Or the agent who turned me down, saying she didn’t think she could sell my manuscript—even though I’d told her I already had an offer on it from a major publisher.

Rejections are educational!

Think of a rejection letter as a free bit of professional advice. Six editors say the same thing? If it’s “the plot is thin,” maybe you should consider working on the plot. Six editors say six different things? No point revising now, unless one of the comments really clicks. Otherwise, keep submitting. Even a form rejection tells you something: that whoever sent it wasn’t interested enough to spend much time. Twenty form rejections is a good hint that your manuscript needs lots of work—or that it should be put aside while you move on to something else.

Rejections are terrific practice—for rejection.

Every aspiring writer dreams of that magic moment when a manuscript is accepted for publication. Break out the bonbons! You’re a real writer now! You’ll never be rejected and ignored again!

Then months go by with no word from your editor. Or years. Or she calls to tell you that the illustrator they were hoping for turned down the project. In fact, every illustrator on the planet has turned down the project. Your editor points out cheerfully that scientists may still discover life—and illustration talent—on Jupiter’s moons.

Your book is published, but no one reviews it. Or it’s reviewed, and the reviewers hate it. Or reviewers love it, but the big chain bookstores decide not to carry it. Or they carry it, but no one buys it, so the books get sent back to the publisher and eventually shredded to a pulp.

Luckily, you’ve learned how to deal with rejection! So you don’t waste time dwelling on these setbacks. You go straight back to your writing desk. After all, the sooner you finish another manuscript, the sooner your mailbox will start filling up again with more fun, educational rejection letters.

Rejections are The Way.

As Lao Tzu pointed out, there can be no light without dark. (I’m pretty sure he said that when the twenty-third editor finally called with an offer on the Tao Te Ching.) And if you eat nothing but ice cream, it loses its taste. So as you choke down those bitter rejections, just think: without them, the good news you’re waiting for could never be so sweet.

Mara Rockliff’s recent titles include Get Real: What Kind of World Are You Buying? (Running Press Teens) and the picture book The Busiest Street in Town (Knopf). Visit her online at www.mararockliff.com.

Friday, December 3, 2010

Topic 3: The Reality of Rejection


Response 1: Sandy

Rejection. Huge sigh. The very word picks at the scabs of ancient schoolyard wounds. The myth, the hope, the dream is that literary – and perhaps even personal -- rejection will end once we’ve “got our foot in the door.” That may be true if the foot belongs to J.K. Rowling, but it’s not true for most of the rest of us. I’ve had my foot in the publishing door for well over 40 years now.  Rejection continues to graze nearby, raising its beastly head from time to time to charge my way.

If it’s okay with you, David, I’d like to talk about dealing with rejection BEFORE it happens in this first part of our chat and dealing with it AFTER it happens when I chime in later.

My favorite pastime during the first 10 or 15 years of my writing career was reading other authors' comments in writers' magazines about the numerous times their work had been rejected before it finally got published --10, 15, 20, 25.  After a while, I didn't need those reports anymore, because I had my own war stories to tell, but I believed in the happy ending: Those folks did, eventually, get published. I clung to that happy ending with all my might. I was willing to battle my way through any forest of tangled and thorny vines to get to it. What I wasn’t willing to do, at first, was acknowledge that our field has rules and that I need to play by those rules if I hoped to get anywhere.

There were no marketing skills taught in my college creative writing classes. I happened to see a copy of The Writer on a newsstand one day, bought it, and submitted a poem I'd written in class to a tiny literary journal I found listed inside. I sent the poem off without requesting a sample copy of the journal to study first, and without enclosing a self-addressed, stamped envelope for its very possible return. 

A few weeks later, I received a postcard telling me the poem had been accepted for publication. A dream come true, and possibly the worst thing that could have happened to me at that stage in my development. I thought, "Oh, this is easy! All I have to do is write stuff down, mail it off, and they'll print it up and send back money." (Well, okay, not money -- but two contributor's copies and that's a start!)
           
So I sent out all the poems, stories, plays, and articles I could think up, as fast as I could get them down on paper. Never mind rewriting -- I was clearly a genius. Never mind studying the markets. If publications had rules, and The Writer hinted that they indeed might, they'd break them for me because everything I wrote was divinely inspired.
           
About ten years into this vigorous and arrogant attack, I had indeed published quite a few pieces, but when I finally paused to take account, I realized that for every 50 envelopes stuffed with brilliance I was sending out, 49 stories, poems, plays, and articles were coming back rejected, and ONE was getting accepted for publication. Chimpanzees typing randomly could probably have done as well.

The moral of this story reflects ten years of trial and error on my part.  May it spare you much effort and time: Study the market. When editors state their requirements in a market guide or in contest rules or at conferences -- believe them. I can’t promise that will stop rejection in its tracks, but it’ll definitely slow the beast down.
                                                 
Response 2:  David

Sandy, I enjoyed your remarks, all the more because they sound so déjà vu-ish. I hope that someone reading this has a better story to tell than yours or mine, but early, easy success, as far as I know, is rarer than a joke book from Kirkus.

My quest for publication began as a college science major. I took a creative writing class and the professor told me I had a knack for writing. Being unfamiliar with the market (Oops, was there a class in that?), I dreamed of instant recognition, which would save a lot of time and work. My voice was so singular, so remarkable, so undiscovered that somewhere an insightful editor was going to read my story, slap his forehead, and gasp incredulously. Okay, that last part was over the top. But I’ve always wanted to write, “gasp incredulously,” and not be engaged in purple prose. Whatever, it didn’t happen.

During the following six years in hot pursuit of that head-slapping editor, I read that writers keep more than one story in circulation. Also, writers keep lists of places to send each story, on the remote chance that it comes back with its tale dragging, before rigor mortis of resolve sets in.

I followed both pieces of advice. I devoured Writers’ Market; made lists of “friendly” sounding publishers; copied names of editors and mailing addresses; laid in a supply of 9x12 envelopes, address labels, and reassuring rolls of stamps; maintained detailed records of each story’s history of submissions and rejections; and churned out new stories with a sense of impending destiny. I took pride in having at least a dozen stories out at all times.

During the next half dozen years I averaged ten submissions per year. I averaged ten rejections. Net gain: zero. This was not the best time of my life. But it was the most necessary. Now, after dozens of books on my belt, I can laugh and say, “Ha-ha-ha, no more rejections for me!”

But, of course, that would not be true. Rejection is always with us. As Sandy points out, it’s not unusual to get turned down. There can be lots of reasons: Ignorant editor, the stupid economy, out-of-touch editorial board, backward sales force, malicious promotion director, clueless art director . . . Okay, sometimes maybe the story is a teeniest weeniest bit shy of the mark. These are obstacles we live with. Emerging writers may feel rejection a bit more personally than beat-up old pros. At some point a writer becomes more philosophical about rejections. He or she learns to roll with them to a certain extent. They still smart and frustrate and aggravate. But editors, some claim, don’t really hate us. They work for companies that hope to show the stockholders a profit at the end of the year. How mundane.

Here’s my advice to emerging writers. Frame your first rejection letter. Choose a nice frame and hang it where you can see it every day. It may only be an impersonal printed slip but it’s still important enough to keep. The first rejection is your ticket into the fraternity of eternally optimistic folks who make up stories, write nonfiction, or pour out their hearts in poems. There is no sin in being rejected. The only sin is in quitting because the big boys kicked sand in your face.

Response 3: Sandy

“...Ignorant editor, the stupid economy, out-of-touch editorial board, backward sales force, malicious promotion director, clueless art director...” 

David!  What a delicious incantation! I think I’ll post it above my computer and chant it out loud – with gusto! – whenever another rejection rolls in. Take that and that and THAT! I just know I’ll feel cleansed, cheered, and most importantly, energized.

Anger has its upside. It tells us our needs are not being met. It provides the adrenaline rush needed to get them met. Earlier I mentioned “revenge” as a response to rejection. Sounds destructive, but guess what? Properly employed, revenge can be quite a healthy and productive response. I figured that out just about the time the steady waves of rejection finally began denting and rusting my faux armor of ignorant self-assurance. (For more about that, see Response 1.) As I tore open more and more dreaded envelopes containing returned manuscripts, I took to sprawling on the sofa for long, sometimes tearful, sulks. My husband and children would wander by, murmuring words of sympathy and encouragement. Sort of.

Me: Whatever made me think I could publish my work? What made me think I could even write? Never again. I give up. I mean it!

Them: How long is it going to last this time? Are you planning to cook dinner or what?

Eventually, even I would grow tired of my own self-pity. That’s when the second tsunami would wash over me: REVENGE! 

Me: I will revise this thing until it’s so wonderful the next editor to see it will snap it up – and it will be so successful the rest of them will eat their hearts out that they didn’t grab it when they had the chance.

Them: Okay. So what’s for dinner?

I’m not a vengeful person normally, but I do have an older brother, so I learned early to stop sniveling and fight back. My current household confirmed that sniveling would get me nowhere. But thoughts of literary revenge gave me the energy I needed to stand up and get back to work. And cook dinner, too.

These days, I’m less of a drama queen. No kids at home means a reduced audience anyway. “Self-pity Meets Revenge” is a short one-act instead of a full-length play, and it’s performed mainly inside my head. But that “I’ll show them!” impulse still gets the adrenaline flowing.

Not everyone needs to face rejection. Writing is a good thing. Writing for oneself, one’s family, one’s friends – all valid and worthwhile endeavors. Writing for professional publication is a whole other challenge. As I’ve often told my students, “It’s art when you create it; it’s art when your audience receives it. Everything in between is BUSINESS.” Rejection is an unavoidable part of that business. But no one’s required to go there. If you can be happy doing anything else, do that other thing and write for the joy of it. But if you can’t be happy without sharing your work through professional publication, figure on spending considerable time wending your way through the Big Business Forest that stands between you and your audience. Prepare to meet lions and tigers and bears. Oh, my.

I don’t remember which Hollywood mogul said it, but an agent passed it on: “If I’d known I was getting into this business, I never would’ve gotten into this business.”

Well, I’m in it. If you decide publication is the way you must go, learn to read between the lines of those rejections. The standard form says, “Not for us at this time.” Okay, that’s a “no.” But it does leave open, “Maybe for someone else at some other time.” The handwritten note, even a “Sorry” scribbled at the bottom of a standard form, means “Not for us, but, busy as I am, I still want to let you know you’ve impressed me.” The more extensive personal comment means, “Not for us, but likely for someone else, and I’m hoping we connect with another piece soon.” And if an editor’s comments end with “If you’re willing to revise along these lines, I’d like to see this again,” you’ve got an open door. Walk through it!

Hang onto those personal comments. Editors do not make them lightly. I keep a collection of them and was able to remind an editor of her former kind words when submitting something entirely different to her years later, after she’d moved to another publishing house. She remembered. That’s how much those comments mean to a busy editor taking the time and making the effort to write them! 

Oh, and given her new job and my new material, she was able to offer an entirely different response: “Yes.” So, burn no bridges behind you. David’s incantation is strictly for home use only. Repeat as needed, then forge ahead!

Your turn to wrap it up, David.

Response 4: David 

So I’m attending a major convention. This morning I made a presentation about Word of the Month Poetry Challenge which, I think, was well received and might result in more teachers introducing their students to the project. Not ony that, I'm signing books at the Scholastic booth and last hour I signed books at the Boyds Mills Press booth. In both places, I greeted many old friends and met a number of new ones. When I finish here, I’ll attend the Authors Luncheon and sit around a table of teachers, each of whom will receive a copy of my latest book. They will ask me to sign their books and I’ll do it with pleasure. It’s hard not to feel good about this day. Until I check my e-mail just prior to the luncheon. And there I find a r-e-j-e-c-t-i-o-n.

And I am bummed.

Never mind how grown-up we all try to be about having our work turned down, it still stings when someone says, “Not for us.” As Sandy says, we gradually reach a point where we take these rejections in stride as being part of the job. Maybe our sulk time shortens and the hysterics diminish. But come on, I’m having a Rejection Moment here. How about a moment of silence?

Okay, I’m back.

Today I visited with several other writers, among them some of the brightest and best. And guess what? One of them just got turned down twice; same for another. Others mention how hard it has been lately for them to get approval for new projects. These are STARS for Pete’s sake. I also talked with editors and they, too, lament how difficult it can be these days to get a book accepted. I mentioned earlier in my conversation with Sandy that I developed a habit years ago to keep a list of potential publishers for every new manuscript so that I could get a rejected manuscript back in circulation as soon as possible after it came back. The tactic still works. 

We’ve talked about dealing with rejection before the fact and how to handle it after it happens. Here’s my executive summary.

1. Write something.
2. Polish it until you can’t read it without sunglasses.
3. Study the market.
4. Make a list of potential publishers.
5. Submit to the one at the top of the list.
6. Remind yourself that there is a strong chance you’ll be rejected.
7. Be prepared to hold the briefest pity part possible before going to #2 on your list.
8. See #7.
9. See #7.
10. See #7.
Etc.
11. If you sell something, bask in the glow, but don’t get used to the idea that you are now invincible.
12. See #7
Etc.

Topic 2: Dealing with Obstacles to Writing
On Being Distracted
by guest Joan Carris



I have been writing something or other since 1976. My first writing assignment was a plea from the Unitarian church in Princeton for an original play celebrating the BiCentennial. Having no idea of how difficult that could be, I said YES. At the time our kids were 14, 9, and 6. “When I’m writing,” I told them, “don’t bother me unless you’re bleeding.”

I settled down at my typewriter with a ream of paper and rolled in the first pristine sheet. Instantly heard a terrified screaming outside my workroom window. I flew outdoors just in time to see our 6 year-old son hit the ground under the neighbor’s giant willow tree. He and I had a red-hot discussion right there. “But I stopped myself by grabbing a branch,” he said. “See?  I’m hardly bleeding at all!”

That was the beginning of my distracted life as a writer. Over time I have managed to learn a little something about the craft—mainly that it is a heckuva lot harder than it should be. As Hawthorne wrote, “Easy reading is damned hard writing.” I believe it’s hard because we keep expecting more of ourselves. We intimidate ourselves, and then call it writer’s block.
            
Fran Lebowitz, an extremely funny essayist (Social Studies, 1981), was quoted in the online Writer’s Almanac as saying, “Most writers have a hard time writing. I have a harder time than most because I’m lazier than most…I would have made a perfect heiress.” She is now at work on a novel that was commissioned more than 20 years ago.
Okay, so writing IS HARD. Clearly we deserve not just a room of our own, as Virginia Woolf said, but some peace and quiet, dangit. The world should tiptoe away. It should, but it won’t.  Some damn fool will ring your doorbell. Your back left molar will start throbbing. The cat will meow to be let in.

Real life and writing simply are not compatible. Life is always interrupting. I tend to feel lucky if it isn’t interrupting with an illness or a new litter of kittens. Long ago I decided that writers must become more devious. How? Try running away. Ask your church for permission to write in an empty classroom. Ask a friend if you can write at her place after she leaves for work. Some writers work at a public library table in a nearby town, not in their own library where people know them. I like the study carrels at our community college.

Most of the time, though, I write at home. I let the bloody distractions go on, run a fan for white noise, and force myself to focus. That’s easier with a good outline, by the way. In a long, lean period in my past, when I was the only one stoking my fire, I began talking to myself. I said, “This is who I am and this is what I do. Now shut up, Joan, and get to work.” I still tell myself that.

Recent books include Welcome To the Bed and Biscuit (2006), Wild Times at the Bed and Biscuit (2009), and Magic at the Bed and Biscuit (January 2011), all from Candlewick Press.