Getting There

Sometimes it can be hard to remember that life’s about the journey, not just the destination.

Particularly, of course, when stuff like *this* is going on…
Image: theguardian.com

Trying to forge a career in writing can be exhausting. It’s certainly long-haul, and trying to perfect your craft sucks down the hours of your life so fast that you don’t even notice them whizzing by. It can be hard to keep going sometimes when it feels like all you’re doing is (as my mother would say) ‘throwing biscuits to a bear’ – no matter what you do, nothing seems to change. You keep submitting, you keep writing, you keep trying, and nothing comes back in return.

But we keep going anyway. Why? Because we love the act of writing, of creating a piece of work from nothing, of watching an idea that previously existed only in skeletal form somewhere inside our minds taking shape on a page and turning into a full-blooded Story. Or, at least, we should.

Writing in order to become rich in a speedy manner is simply foolish, yet – from what I hear – many people still believe that writing a book is a fast-track, one way ticket to wealth and fame. I follow a lot of blogs and Twitter feeds where I pick up advice not only on the art of writing, but also on the art of creating a career as a writer, and something I read last week which has stuck with me is the following (highly redacted, and heavily summarised) story:

Once, there was a writer. They lived in an ordinary house, with two or three cute but ultimately ordinary dogs. They may have had up to four (beautiful and dearly loved) children. They got to a certain age and thought: ‘Hey. Instead of just reading all these books, why don’t I write some? There’s got to be a buck or two to be made in that game. Right?’ So, they bought one of these:

Image: site.xavier.edu

They sat down at their brand-new writin’ machine, and they started to bash out a story. Night after night they laboured, until at some point up to a month later they had a story, approximately 178,000 words long, which they thought was wonderful. Their hairdresser read the first chapter and wept (with amazement? Envy? Who knows); their friends all told the writer how brilliant they were to have done something as fabulous as write a book. ‘It was so easy!’ the writer said. ‘You should all do it!’

So, the writer bundled up their manuscript, penned a floral and extravagant introductory letter describing their book as ‘Barbara Cartland meets Catherine Cookson meets Stephenie Meyer,’ and ‘a work of genius,’ doused it in perfume, and sent copies to every major publisher and agent in their country – whether or not they accepted unsolicited submissions, and whether or not they represented the sort of work this undaunted writer had produced.

Then, our writer friend sat back and waited for the big bucks to roll in.

They may also have thought, rather smugly, ‘Not everyone would be intelligent enough to take the easy way out, like me. Suckers.’

Image: fstop57,com

But, sadly, the writer never heard back from the majority of the places to which they’d submitted their laboriously created novel. From others, they heard stock rejections. From yet others, they received letters thanking them for their effort, and making suggestions as to how they could improve and resubmit.

The writer took this as a blind and idiotic refusal to accept the towering magnitude of their genius, and wrote excoriating letters to each and every publisher and agent to whom they’d previously submitted, lambasting them for not spotting said genius. ‘You’ll be sorry when I’m a multi-millionaire,’ they wrote, in red pen. ‘Just watch!’

And so, they self-published their magnum opus.

And nobody – besides their friends, their mother and the lady who worked behind the counter at their local cake shop – bought it. Nobody read the whole thing. The writer didn’t even have the joy of discussing their work with anyone else, because the book was unreadable.

This writer didn’t write for love of words. They weren’t interested in crafting a story until it’s as good as it can be. They didn’t want to hear constructive criticism, and they didn’t want to be told that there were ways in which to improve. Their first draft was the only draft, in their eyes. Why tamper with perfection?

This person is not a writer, in my opinion. They are what we term in Ireland ‘a chancer,’ out to chase a quick payday without having put in any effort.

But their biggest mistake?

Not listening to the agents who wrote back with constructive feedback and tips on how to make their book work.

Agents are busy people. They don’t typically take time out to help writers if they don’t see something – even something tiny – which is worth nourishing. They’re also interested in a writer’s career, not just helping them bring forth one blockbusting, moneymaking book which will see them both retiring to the Bahamas. Agents do their job because they love finding the right book for the right publishing deal, and because they love discovering something new. If our writer had managed to see beyond their own ego and had listened to the agents’ advice, things could have been very different.

Image: fanaru.com

The point of all this is: I have received another ‘rejection’ from an agent, but I use the word ‘rejection’ lightly, as the agent is interested in helping me to live up to my own potential.

An agent thinks I have potential.

I haven’t reached my destination yet, but it’s good enough, for now.

**

I just wanted to say a quick ‘thank you’ to everyone who took the time to sympathise with me after yesterday’s post. I had many messages, most of them on Facebook, expressing sorrow for the loss of my friend, and I am profoundly grateful for each one. Please keep his parents, his brothers and his fiancée in your thoughts, particularly on February 23rd which is the date his memorial service will be held. Thank you all for your kindness.

Unworthy

Today’s post is not just an excuse to use an image like this:

They weren’t worthy! Neither am I!
Image: teamliquid.net

However, while it may not have been the main reason, I have to admit the thought of using this image was part of my decision-making process. I love ‘Wayne’s World’, the ‘We’re Not Worthy!’ sketch has always made me laugh, and – I promise – there’s a connection ‘twixt image and blog post. Today I wanted to write a bit about something which has been weighing on me lately, and it’s connected with a feeling of unworthiness, or a nagging sense of I’m not good enough and I should just give up now before I make an idiot of myself and everyone is probably secretly laughing at me.

It’s an extremely damaging thing, this feeling. Not only for my efforts to create a career, but also for my own mental health. As well as all that, it’s completely ridiculous, but I find it difficult to remember that at times.

Ever since I started to write, and made it public (i.e. by submitting work wherever I could submit it, starting this blog and telling people about what I was up to, and trying not to cringe while I described myself as ‘a writer’), I’ve received nothing but solid support. Everyone – including friends of friends, people who only know me through my parents or my husband or, amazingly, people who don’t know me in real life at all and who I’ve only met through the medium of the internet – has lifted me up on a swell of encouragement and has been delighted to hear about my efforts; several people have even told me how impressed they are by my decision to follow a dream and do my best to live the life I’ve always wanted. Sometimes, I wonder if this is part and parcel of being a writer in Ireland, where I still think creativity is seen as a good and noble thing and not completely off-the-wall – but then, I’ve received support from all over the world, so perhaps that’s beside the point. Whatever the reason, I am grateful beyond measure for every smidgen of encouragement, and I hope this feeling I’m trying to describe, this feeling of ‘unworthiness’, won’t be understood as ungrateful rejection of all the generous and loving support I’ve been lucky enough to receive. That’s not what I mean, at all. These unworthy feelings are something I’m imposing on myself; it’s not out of character for me, but I really wish I could stop doing it.

It all began to manifest like this: on one of the recent occasions where I had something accepted for publication, I remember greeting the news not with unalloyed joy and a sense of accomplishment, but with a tinge of discomfort and upset. I’ve been trying to work out why ever since, and I’ve concluded that it was because despite working hard over the story, I felt wasn’t good enough, and I hadn’t been expecting it to be accepted, and when it was – well. My brain sort of flipped.

I couldn’t bring myself to think that ‘maybe the story was a little bit better than you’d thought it was’ or ‘perhaps you’re being a little hard on yourself’; I started to think damaging and destructive things like ‘they must have been short on entries’ or ‘they needed to fill a space in the publication.’ Now, I’m pretty sure those things aren’t true. I’m pretty sure the publishers had no shortage of stories to choose from. They chose mine, but I couldn’t allow myself to be pleased. I started doing that thing I do – you know the one, where I have a reaction which I know is irrational and silly, but I can’t help myself – and it felt really unpleasant. I felt like I was unworthy of the honour of having my story accepted, like the publishers were doing me a favour instead of saying ‘This story is good enough to form part of our publication’; it made me feel very odd. I didn’t like it. At the same time, I didn’t really know what to do in order to tackle it.

Writing is not an easy thing – I’m not even talking about the act of pulling words out of your brain and slapping them down on a page, though that is difficult too, of course. What I mean is, it’s not an easy thing to spend so much time by yourself, and to have little but your own thoughts for company; even if, like me, you’re a person who enjoys being alone and who thrives in the world of the mind, it can be a challenge. I’m beginning to wonder if too much time spent thinking can lead to the struts which keep your mind steady buckling a little under the strain, which can affect the way you see the world and yourself, and your place in it. It’s hard, too, to pressure yourself just enough to meet all your obligations and deadlines without exerting too much force, and ending up pressuring yourself into oblivion. When you only have yourself to regulate the pressure, it’s clear that sometimes things can go wrong.

So, I’m taking that on board today, and I’m going to think about ways in which I can create a new balance in my life without sacrificing too much of my writing time. I may take a few days’ leave from the blog – a little holiday, perhaps – and I may print out, in big letters, a sign which says the words YOU ARE ENOUGH! and place it over my desk. I am enough – I do enough – I will be enough.

I hope nobody can relate to this post, and that you’re all too clever to allow yourselves to fall into a trap like this one. I hope that your writing lives (and your non-writing lives, come to that!) are flourishing, that you’re taking it easy, and not piling pressure on your own heads. Thank you for all your support – I hope I’ll be able to continue counting on it! – and I hope Tuesday turns out to be a jewel of a day for all of you.

And remember – you are enough!

Reading vs Writing

And here we are, washed up on the shores of Thursday. How are you all?

I haven’t been doing a lot of writing this week, because life has managed to get in the way a lot over the past few days. It has a nasty habit of doing that just when you feel deadlines approaching and commitments (even if they’re only ones you’ve made to yourself!) piling up all around you. But, hopefully, from today until Saturday at least I’ll have time to get myself back on track and plough through some of the story ideas I’ve been working on; I’ll get them drafted and ready to sit, percolating, for a few days, all going well. I have competition deadlines coming up in June, July and August, and I need to have polished, professional work ready to submit.

Hang on, will you, just a second, while I breathe into this paper bag.

I can do this… I can do this!
Image: babyboomeradviserclub.com

Okay. I’m good to go.

This deadline-fear is one of the reasons I go through periodic bouts of panicky palpitations and sleepless nights and sweaty palms – it’s necessary to plan ahead like this in terms of project management and upcoming commitments, but taking the long view on things sure does make life seem frightening, and full, and extremely stressful. Taking things one at a time has been my lifelong mantra, but in this ol’ writing game, you don’t always have that luxury. Multi-tasking has become my middle name.

I should spare a thought at this point, actually, for the hundreds of thousands of kids in Ireland who are sitting their major summer examinations right now. They began yesterday – just, of course, in time for the sun to finally emerge out of its hiding place and start drying out this sodden little country – and I remember all too well that horrible pressure the kids are under. I wouldn’t go through it all again for a king’s ransom. In a way, though, going through an examination process is excellent preparation for life, don’t you think? Kids: I hate to say this, but it doesn’t get any better.

No. That’s a joke, of course. It gets loads better. You still have to cope with pressure, deadlines and stress, but you get to be old, creaky and scatter-brained at the same time, which makes it more fun, particularly for those around you.

Despite the fact that I have excellent deadline-juggling training, there is one aspect of it at which I really am not good; no, not good at all. That thing is: trying to fit my reading deadlines around my writing ones. I have no fewer than three books on the go at the moment – not an unusual thing for me, I have to admit – but there’s also the fact that yesterday, on a browse through my *stealth boast alert* extensive book collection, I realised that my To Be Read pile had grown to heights unheard of since my long-ago and far-away teens. I have so many books I want to read that I’ll have to take a week off just to get started on them. Reading, of course, is a vital part of writing, and so needs to be somehow factored into everything else; each book to be read is another small deadline, another commitment to meet. Luckily, of course, these are probably the only enjoyable deadlines in the world, and so it’s almost a good thing that I have so many of ’em piling up. At least, I tell myself this to make myself feel better about it.

Also, I’m struggling to ignore the fact that Neil Gaiman has a new book out in a few weeks.

Image: transparentwithmyself.wordpress.com

If I start letting myself think about this for too long, then all my other deadline-awareness flies out the window. Gaiman trumps everything in the great card game of life, of course. I have a feeling that all tools will have to be downed the second ‘The Ocean at the End of the Lane’ comes out, because if I know it exists somewhere in the world, and I haven’t got my hands on it, then I will know no peace until it’s safely read and put on my shelf to admire along with all my other Neil Gaiman books.

Yes. I am an addict. I know.*

My main problem, as you’ll have worked out by now, is that I’m an addict to both reading and writing, and they’ve never come head-to-head before in quite such a way as this. Somehow, though, I’m sure I’ll struggle through. I suppose, really, it’s only right and fair to prioritise the writing deadlines, since they’re imposed by someone else (and are, let’s face it, a little bit more important), but I reckon I’ll pull a few all-nighters and meet most of my reading deadlines, too.

Phew. It’s a hard life.

Happy Thursday to you all. I hope, wherever you are and whatever you’re doing, that you’re happy and well and have plenty to read. If you’re stuck for a book, let me know – maybe we can work something out!

*If my husband is reading this, I hope the fact that I’m about to wish him a happy birthday in public will make up for this blatant admission that I’ll be adding another tome to our Neil Gaiman shelf in a little while. Happy Birthday to the best and most understanding and loveliest husband in the world!