(Above: Photo from the Facebook site for my new book, "What You Don't Know.")
Writing for public consumption is not a pursuit recommended for insecure, thin-skinned or otherwise overly sensitive types.
Negative comments are inevitable. As with all creative endeavors, the written word is one individual’s chancy output and the reactions to it are absolutely subjective. One person’s incredible, classic literature is another’s overrated, boring piece of dung.
And this risky aspect of personal expression is heightened in today’s internet world, where instant commentary — much of it cloaked in anonymity — can greet any action.
But despite this reality, we still have an ever-exploding number of writers. And they remain, as a group, predominantly insecure, thin-skinned and otherwise overly sensitive.
As an admitted member of that group, I often question why I put myself through it — is the fun of writing, and the thrill of positive feedback, worth the venture into ego-threatening waters? Depends on the day. Yes, on my good days. No, on my bad days.
For me, the good days are mostly in the creative process. It’s when — alone with my thoughts and keyboard — I get story ideas and manage to write them well. It’s when I come up with a good plot twist, when I devise a logical progression or ending. I feel good. I allow myself a little pride, even a little celebration, from time to time (like when I came up with the finales for both my books).
However, putting all those proud developments out to public scrutiny produces the bad days. The alternative, of course, is to write just for oneself or family and friends who can be counted on (mostly) for niceness.
So, really there is no alternative. If an objective set of people doesn’t find your work any good, then really, it’s time to be honest: Maybe it really isn’t.
But, as noted above and in past blogs, opinions about music, art, drama, books and all other forms of creativity are so subjective, there’s enough ego wiggle room to allow rationalization about any negative commentary.
At least that’s how I and countless number of authors survive dozens of rejections from agents and publishers and reviewers.
With the self-publication of my second book, “What You Don’t Know,” earlier this month, I’m now a two-time loser in the great agent and publisher chase. For both my books, I sent out some 100 “queries,” as they’re known in the biz, and received all rejections.
The second go-round did produce a few encouraging notes and a couple of serious considerations, so there’s that. But the bottom line remained the same: “Not for us.”
The upside was that the process is now far cheaper, with nearly all agents and small publishers having an on-line presence and accepting solicitations via email. With my publisher providing a second-book discount, my financial outlay is about half — around $1,000 — what it was for the first book, “This Point in Time.”
However, the hardest part for me has now arrived: Marketing. I have never been good at sales or self-promotion. That takes a special skill, and an especially thick skin. I just like to write. But in the world of self-publication, marketing is at least half the game. I came across several agents or small publishers who rank a marketing plan higher in value, when judging a book’s potential, than the quality of the work itself.
As I may have noted in earlier blog posts, this is a cruel irony: Someone whose primary interest and joy (writing) entails a solitary, isolated existence must now somehow take on a gregarious, very public persona in order to sell his or her work.
On top of that, you’re asking these “loner” types who just went through a round of personal rejections — and thus are pretty insecure about their products — to now put themselves out there — with confidence, brio, salesmanship — for potentially another round of the same.
(I put loner in quotes because, while writers must work alone, they may not actually prefer being alone to being social. I resist being called a loner just because my circumstances — empty nester, attempts at writing —leave me by myself much of the time. I like people and get along with people, even if I don’t seek them out 24-7.)
In a recent NPR interview, a successful author told how she actually left the country so she would not be exposed to any reactions or reviews of her just-released book. She said she was shocked to hear from her publisher that her book was wildly popular and had in fact made the best-seller lists.
So, I’m in good company. And, making matters worse, I’m betting most authors, on top of being shy or scared about self-marketing, also have reached a state of “book fatigue” by the time their work heads out for public consumption.
Whether self-published or other-published, conscientious authors have gone over their written words dozens of times before they reach final form.
For those fortunate enough to land a publishing contract, this means subjecting their work to editing and probably some re-writing, always a painful and ego-damaging task.
If the writer is going it alone, the editing process means re-reading the finished book probably six or seven times in addition to putting it out to a copy editor. For me, it also involved getting some text-to-speech software and having my book read to me by a computerized, flat-voiced “Vicki.” The process was recommended by my publisher and proved to be surprisingly valuable in finding typos or other problems in the text. But Vicki’s rendition, coming at the tail end of my self-editing process, made me dislike my entire book.
I mean, I don’t think any creative work — be it a movie, TV show or book — can stand up to repeated viewings.
I may love “The Maltese Falcon” and “Bonfire of the Vanities” but I wouldn’t want to read them seven times in a six-month period. I read excerpts of favorite books once in a while and briefly revisit them every decade or so, but even these prized pieces of writing would begin falling apart under the scrutiny of back-to-back-to-back-to-back readings.
Likewise, favorite movies or TV shows can only really be enjoyed with viewings every 5-10 years, not repeatedly over a short span.
Each time I re-read my book, I found things I could change. I probably could re-write much of it, if I wanted to take the time (or if I had an advance from a publisher, who thus is paying for me to spend as much time and effort as needed to polish my work, under the watchful eye of a respected, experienced editor.) But you have to just wrap it up sometime and tell yourself that any “improvements” amount to just different versions, not necessarily better ones. Go with what you got.
Still, with knowledge of my work’s potential fallibility fresh in mind, I must head out now to strongly advocate for it. And if I get a critical review? I won’t read it.
You see, “What You Don’t Know” can’t hurt you.
Writing for public consumption is not a pursuit recommended for insecure, thin-skinned or otherwise overly sensitive types.
Negative comments are inevitable. As with all creative endeavors, the written word is one individual’s chancy output and the reactions to it are absolutely subjective. One person’s incredible, classic literature is another’s overrated, boring piece of dung.
And this risky aspect of personal expression is heightened in today’s internet world, where instant commentary — much of it cloaked in anonymity — can greet any action.
But despite this reality, we still have an ever-exploding number of writers. And they remain, as a group, predominantly insecure, thin-skinned and otherwise overly sensitive.
As an admitted member of that group, I often question why I put myself through it — is the fun of writing, and the thrill of positive feedback, worth the venture into ego-threatening waters? Depends on the day. Yes, on my good days. No, on my bad days.
For me, the good days are mostly in the creative process. It’s when — alone with my thoughts and keyboard — I get story ideas and manage to write them well. It’s when I come up with a good plot twist, when I devise a logical progression or ending. I feel good. I allow myself a little pride, even a little celebration, from time to time (like when I came up with the finales for both my books).
However, putting all those proud developments out to public scrutiny produces the bad days. The alternative, of course, is to write just for oneself or family and friends who can be counted on (mostly) for niceness.
So, really there is no alternative. If an objective set of people doesn’t find your work any good, then really, it’s time to be honest: Maybe it really isn’t.
But, as noted above and in past blogs, opinions about music, art, drama, books and all other forms of creativity are so subjective, there’s enough ego wiggle room to allow rationalization about any negative commentary.
At least that’s how I and countless number of authors survive dozens of rejections from agents and publishers and reviewers.
With the self-publication of my second book, “What You Don’t Know,” earlier this month, I’m now a two-time loser in the great agent and publisher chase. For both my books, I sent out some 100 “queries,” as they’re known in the biz, and received all rejections.
The second go-round did produce a few encouraging notes and a couple of serious considerations, so there’s that. But the bottom line remained the same: “Not for us.”
The upside was that the process is now far cheaper, with nearly all agents and small publishers having an on-line presence and accepting solicitations via email. With my publisher providing a second-book discount, my financial outlay is about half — around $1,000 — what it was for the first book, “This Point in Time.”
However, the hardest part for me has now arrived: Marketing. I have never been good at sales or self-promotion. That takes a special skill, and an especially thick skin. I just like to write. But in the world of self-publication, marketing is at least half the game. I came across several agents or small publishers who rank a marketing plan higher in value, when judging a book’s potential, than the quality of the work itself.
As I may have noted in earlier blog posts, this is a cruel irony: Someone whose primary interest and joy (writing) entails a solitary, isolated existence must now somehow take on a gregarious, very public persona in order to sell his or her work.
On top of that, you’re asking these “loner” types who just went through a round of personal rejections — and thus are pretty insecure about their products — to now put themselves out there — with confidence, brio, salesmanship — for potentially another round of the same.
(I put loner in quotes because, while writers must work alone, they may not actually prefer being alone to being social. I resist being called a loner just because my circumstances — empty nester, attempts at writing —leave me by myself much of the time. I like people and get along with people, even if I don’t seek them out 24-7.)
In a recent NPR interview, a successful author told how she actually left the country so she would not be exposed to any reactions or reviews of her just-released book. She said she was shocked to hear from her publisher that her book was wildly popular and had in fact made the best-seller lists.
So, I’m in good company. And, making matters worse, I’m betting most authors, on top of being shy or scared about self-marketing, also have reached a state of “book fatigue” by the time their work heads out for public consumption.
Whether self-published or other-published, conscientious authors have gone over their written words dozens of times before they reach final form.
For those fortunate enough to land a publishing contract, this means subjecting their work to editing and probably some re-writing, always a painful and ego-damaging task.
If the writer is going it alone, the editing process means re-reading the finished book probably six or seven times in addition to putting it out to a copy editor. For me, it also involved getting some text-to-speech software and having my book read to me by a computerized, flat-voiced “Vicki.” The process was recommended by my publisher and proved to be surprisingly valuable in finding typos or other problems in the text. But Vicki’s rendition, coming at the tail end of my self-editing process, made me dislike my entire book.
I mean, I don’t think any creative work — be it a movie, TV show or book — can stand up to repeated viewings.
I may love “The Maltese Falcon” and “Bonfire of the Vanities” but I wouldn’t want to read them seven times in a six-month period. I read excerpts of favorite books once in a while and briefly revisit them every decade or so, but even these prized pieces of writing would begin falling apart under the scrutiny of back-to-back-to-back-to-back readings.
Likewise, favorite movies or TV shows can only really be enjoyed with viewings every 5-10 years, not repeatedly over a short span.
Each time I re-read my book, I found things I could change. I probably could re-write much of it, if I wanted to take the time (or if I had an advance from a publisher, who thus is paying for me to spend as much time and effort as needed to polish my work, under the watchful eye of a respected, experienced editor.) But you have to just wrap it up sometime and tell yourself that any “improvements” amount to just different versions, not necessarily better ones. Go with what you got.
Still, with knowledge of my work’s potential fallibility fresh in mind, I must head out now to strongly advocate for it. And if I get a critical review? I won’t read it.
You see, “What You Don’t Know” can’t hurt you.