Desert Four O’Clock
Long ago, at an Armadillocon, I believe, I was talking to a gentleman who, himself a published writer of mystery fiction, was also teaching writing. Since we shared similar backgrounds—both professional writers, both had taught writing at the college level—he confided in me.
“The longer I do this, the more I wonder if we’re doing any of these people a favor, acting as if we can teach them to write.”
The funny thing about this exchange was that, by “to write,” we both understood that what he—and most of his students—meant by “writing” was “write well enough, originally enough, to be published.”
More recently, I expressed a similar doubt. The person I was talking to immediately objected, saying that while it was true that many people lack the vision or talent to produce publishable work, that didn’t mean they shouldn’t write.
I agree… If being able to monetize a skill is the only reason to learn to do it well, then no one should sing or dance or play an instrument. Paints should stay in the bottle. Sketch books should never be opened. Clay should remain in the wrapper. Beads in the tube.
Unhappily, this encouraging comparison only goes so far because the expectations a writer will face are very different. I do not think every person who sings, dances, plays an instrument, does some sort of craft encounters what writers always do: the expectation that to be a real writer, that writer needs to be a published writer.
Even if the writer starts out writing for the pleasure, for the excitement and diversion of creating a story, the expectation is that to “really” write, the writer needs to also publish.
I don’t know how many times I’ve been part of some variation of this exchange, either as the subject or overhearing it.
“So, you write? Are you published?”
If the answer is “No,” “Not yet,” or some variation thereof, the dismissal on the questioner’s face is usually visible.
Therefore, from an early time in pursuing writing, the writer comes to believe that it’s not enough to write and have the pleasure of writing, the writer must also publish.
Let’s go back to our imaginary dialogue.
“Oh! You’re published! That’s cool. Where?”
When the writer replies, then the cycle of interrogation continues. Short story writers are asked if they’re going to write a novel. Novelists are asked who their publisher is (with various rankings for small press, traditional publishers, indie pub, academic press, literary press—rankings assigned by the questioner).
(And, believe me, no one can be snobbier than an academic press author who was paid in copies to a “genre fiction” writer who actually makes a living from writing. But that’s another topic entirely.)
Even if the writer can jump all of these hurdles, the next criteria seems to be public recognition.
“Have I heard of you?” or even “Are you famous?”
Many years ago, I decided to volunteer at my local library. I like libraries and, at that time, I was spending too much time alone. I signed up to shelf read. The very nice librarians welcomed me and asked, “What do you do?” “I write books.” “Are you published?” “Yes. My first novel came out in 1994 and I’ve had a couple out since. I also have sold a fair number of short stories, and written some non-fiction.”
Nods and smiles. Clear disbelief. It wasn’t until I made a gift of several of my books (mass market paperbacks from an actual New York publisher) to the librarians that they accepted me as a “real” writer. Having written didn’t do it. Having published did.
Another example:
I have a good friend who is a talented writer. When she sold her third professional short story, she was excited almost more because this was her third professional sale (thus qualifying her to join SFWA if she wished) than because she’d sold it to the much-acclaimed magazine Clarke’s World or even because the story was longer than Clarke’s World usually publishes. Nonetheless, they liked it enough to pay her full rates for a long piece.
Writing is the only art/craft form I can think of where the highest compliment people think they can pay you is to say “Wow! This would make a great movie/television show.”
What’s weirder is that most of those people would agree that novels and short stories can tell a more complex story than any movie or TV show. What’s the difference? Exposure and money.
True, with the appearance of sites like Etsy, more and more hobbiests are being urged to “monetize” their work, with the unspoken hint that not only will this help pay for materials, it will make them “real” (painters, beaders, jewelers, wood workers, whatever).
But writers have been dealing with this practically since the invention of the printing press. Heck, for all I know, from before that.
The project I’m working on right now is not “pre-sold,” which has gotten me the sideways eyes from some people. Worse (in terms of my perceived “reality), I might go the indie pub route with it. (More sideways looks.) Never mind that I have my reasons for possibly making that choice. Never mind that (as anyone who has looked at Wolf’s Search and Wolf’s Soul know) my quality control is very high.
Sigh. I think I’ll just go write and leave the question of reality to other folks.
Jane Lindskold: Wednesday Wanderings 