Four Words Every Writer Needs to Hear

(Note: this is an updated version of a post from several years ago. Why? Because every writer STILL needs to hear these four words...)

In 2000, while attending the Maui Writer's Conference, I had an eye-opening, life-changing experience. I had scrounged up money that was earmarked for things like house payments, food, and insurance (you know: frivolities) and had jetted halfway around the world hoping to further my career.

I had been a featured presenter at some smaller writers conferences, had a finished YA manuscript, and a screenplay that had held its own in the Nicholl and Austin film competitions. Other than some magazine articles, I had nothing of note in print. The Maui conference appealed to me because it featured panels on both screenwriting and fiction writing. And because it offered pitching sessions with Real Live Agents. And so, knowing I had much to learn (and hoping to find someone who thought I was brilliant and who signed me immediately), I went to Paradise.

I learned many things.

One of the most painful was that I had no idea how to pitch. (How fast can you say "crash and burn?" Believe me, it takes longer to say than to do!)

One of the most helpful was that the agents & film industry professionals were not interested in eating me alive. (I am eternally grateful to Alison Rosenzweig for suffering through my first-ever pitch attempt. My thoughts: "Oh my God, I'm babbling and I can't shut up! Someone please kill me now." I can only imagine hers. She let me regroup, kindly offered some suggestions, and let me practice on her. Bless her.)

But by far the most influential thing I discovered was that Someone Out There believed I would make it.

Here's what happened:

After a panel discussion with Hollywood insiders on the realities of the film business, they fielded general questions. Someone asked the inevitable "Why does Hollywood keep saying they're looking for great writing while churning out bad movies?"

(I remind you that the year 2000 saw such film releases as "Memento," "Requiem for a Dream," "X-Men," "Gladiator," "American Psycho" (which I still maintain is a comedy), "Castaway" and "Chocolat." Ok, it's true, it also inflicted "Scary Movie," "Charlie's Angels," "Me, Myself & Irene," and "Battlefield Earth" on humanity. But still: it wasn't a terrible year...)

The panelist, a VP of Production at Paramount, answered the question using the analogy of ordering ice cream to feed a group. Individual members of the group may like various flavors, but the group as a whole probably won't all agree on something extravagant like Double Chocolate Macademia Nut or Salted Caramel. And so, in the end, everyone goes with tried and true: Vanilla.

This kicked off a spirited discussion about the ills of the industry and a general trashing of the state of filmmaking.

Finally, I couldn't stand it. I stood and said that I was happy every time I went and saw a bad movie. It gave me hope. Because as long as Hollywood continues to make bad films, I find it easy to believe with all my heart that they need me.

Afterward, the Paramount bigwig tracked me down, introduced himself and shook my hand. He told me he liked what I'd said. Then he said the four words that I'd been desperate to hear:

"You will make it."

I remember very little of the rest of the conference. Four years passed before I got a book deal. I'm still working at finding the chink in the film industry's armor that will let me in. But those words, coming from someone who wasn't related to me, fueled my determination to persevere in ways that the speaker will never know.

I daresay that there is a secret to sticking with any artistic endeavor through the inevitable rejections and dry patches that accompany a creative career, and it is this: Find someone who believes in your success and who tells you that you will make it.

If you're in southwestern Michigan this summer, and looking for a community of writers who will band together to jointly support you while kicking your butt to achieve the goals you have set for yourself, I encourage you to consider joining us at the #Write2TheEnd Writer's Workshop, beginning in June. If you're not in southwestern Michigan, consider starting your own #Write2TheEnd chapter.

Even if we don't immediately achieve our goals and realize our dreams, knowing that someone out there is pulling for us to do so encourages us to make progress on them. And progress, not perfection, is the key to ultimate success.

If you're a writer, an artist, or a creative soul, and you are looking for a reason to keep on keeping on, here it is:

Keep learning.

Keep creating.

Keep growing.

Keep putting your work out there.

Never give up your dreams. And one day, you'll see --

You will make it.

Publishing's Perplexing Pickle Problem

Tom Vanderbilt, in the June issue of Smithsonian magazine, opens his article on the science of taste with a fascinating tale of Howard Moskowitz, a psychophysicist whom Vlassic once tapped to solve the mystery of the Perfect Pickle. The ensuing taste test yielded surprisingly tongue-twisting results:

People primarily picked pickles that packed a more powerful punch than predicted.

Now THAT's a spicy pickle!

When Vlassic applied its research and rolled out a "zesty" pickle, their sales skyrocketed.

"That people in the pickle business should not know what pickle consumers prefer is a reminder of just how difficult it is to tease out the vagaries of why we like what we like," Vanderbilt writes -- a statement as applicable to publishing as it is to pickles.

A friend once worked as a sub-agent for a respected boutique literary agency. She has a good eye for what makes a great story (I'm not just saying that because she loves my stuff), and can critique a blue streak. Her job as sub-agent was to mine the slush pile, searching for the gold nuggets in a cesspool of dross.

While at the agency, she discovered three manuscripts with writing she loved. Two of them told stories she loved as well. The story of the third was darker and at odds with her personal beliefs, though there was no denying the author's skill.

She took her three recommendations to the agency owner, who rejected the two favorites for all the reasons the newbie sub-agent was crazy for them. The third, however, the agency owner adored. Everything in the story that my friend disliked, the agency owner raved about. The difference of opinion was so great that when the agency made an offer of representation, my friend left because she couldn't in good conscience build a career promoting that book.

The coda to the story? The manuscript in question went on to be a huge hit. But the two writers whose work resonated with the then-sub-agent remain unpublished. My friend follows their social media personas, hoping they stick things out till they have publishing success.

This seems like a good place to wait for the bus.

Does the agent know her stuff? Obviously. But who's to say that the differently spiced manuscripts wouldn't also have found a readership?

Not long ago, a writer friend shared with me a rejection she received from a publisher of genre fiction. Though full of raves about her voice, her story, and her style, it's devastating because it's still a "NO." It's such a close no that it's the publishing equivalent of being left at the altar.

The rejection (which was very kind, as far as soul-crushing "no's" go) detailed a list of "shoulds" for any book the publisher acquired.

• The protagonist should have this experience by page 10...
• By page 25, this plot point should occur...
• The protagonist and antagonist should explore their different philosophies in this manner...

And so on.

Now, don't get me wrong: the publisher knows its audience. And the publisher will only stay in business as long as it provides what the audience wants.

I wonder, however, how many "taste tests" are conducted to ascertain that what publishers think should happen must happen in order for a book to be palatable to the public.  

Perhaps -- just perhaps -- people would be willing to try something different, but are served a steady diet of same old, same old.

See, I've read the draft of the rejected manuscript and while not a fan of this particular genre of fiction, I've read enough of it to be familiar with the "rules." The manuscript in question bends the rules a bit, but doesn't mangle them beyond recognition. I found it refreshing, enjoying it far more than the fare that adheres slavishly to What Should Be. Is it not possible that such books might attract a whole new legion of fans to the genre? But since printing *any* book by a new author is risky business, few publishers have the luxury of adding to their risk by taking extra chances. Far safer to eschew Zesty for Tried and True.

A dark flip side also colors the prickly pickle of publishing. It is this: writers fortunate enough to have their books attract a dedicated readership are sometimes held hostage by their own success. Fans tend to clamor for "more of the same" with such ferocity that many writers have traded quality for quantity. It's the industry's version of tenure.

A writer's first book has to be *AWESOME* in order to just get some poor schlub to pluck it from the pile o' slush. The sixth book, however, rarely measures up to the first book's kneecaps, let alone raising the bar to a new level.

I recently read Will Schwalbe's The End of Your Life Book Club, a warm and charming ode to great family relationships as well as to great books. At one point, Schwalbe, a long-time editor for major publishing houses, and his mother discuss what titles to jointly read next:

"Did you know this author has a new book? What do you think?" Mom might ask.
"I didn't love his last four or five," I might answer.
"Well then, why did you keep reading him?"
"I edited them."

You see the briny problem?

In order to break in to the well-barricaded world of traditional publishing, one must write something so wonderful that someone forgets to say "no" to it.

But then there comes a time when all the zesty bits that first sold people on one's writing have had the flavor wrung from them. Words that once cracked and popped, igniting the reader's literary palate, now swim limp and vinegary on the page. If a writer is not encouraged to take chances, to branch out, to bend rules, or to try tasty new combinations, soon the creative stream is dammed to clear the way for cash flow.

The pickle people were once surprised to discover their customers were not only willing to try something new, but were also eager to make it a bestseller. Imagine how similar daring could re-zestify the books we read!

Ode to the Electronic Age of Publishing

Earlier this week, the Baltimore Sun ran an article by Garrison Keeler bemoaning the Decline and Fall of the Book Industry.

"Call me a pessimist, call me Ishmael, but I think that book publishing is about to slide into the sea," Keeler warns.

Though we live in a literate society, says Mr. Woebegon, the demise of the book is due to an overabundance of electronic options that make things too easy.  Too readily available.  This, Keeler posits, encourages wanton writing. He foresees an immediate future where the Hack Writer flourishes.  It is a future devoid of literary content and entirely lacking in commitment.  His rationale:

• No commitment to craft is needed on the writer's part because we now write with numerals in the place of words (as in "I <3 2 read what U write.") 

• No commitment from a publisher is required because anyone who wishes can publish an e-book. 

• No commitment to content is needed, so editors will vanish. (In Keeler's words: Poof!).

• No commitment to readers is needed, so each writer will sell only a few books -- most to blood relatives.  And -- like dinosaurs, arrowheads, buggy whips, and walkmans -- the New York Times bestseller list will become a thing of the past.

• Perhaps most concerning of all: no commitment to established writers is needed.  Because if upstart newcomers are allowed to just publish their stuff for all the world to read it, " will destroy the aura of martyrdom that writers have enjoyed for centuries."

Ah, there's the rub, isn't it?

The electronic age of publishing no longer makes getting one's words into print a matter of wooing, bribing, or making an end-run past the gate keepers.  If no real expense is involved -- if no trees are killed and made into pulp, if no deals are made with foreign printers for cut-rate printing, if no warehouses are needed to store unsold copies, and if no wages must be paid to employees for "stripping" (the unconscionable bookseller practice of ripping the cover off a perfectly good book, sending the cover back to the publisher, and destroying the rest of the book) -- then the only people who have a real vested interest in the writing become... the writers and the readers.

Now, I like Mr. Keeler's radio show. My family (including my 7 year-old daughter, who calls him "the Funny Guy") listens to it whenever we're in the car and can find an NPR station broadcasting it. I like his Writer's Almanac series, and enjoy articles when I see them in magazines.

I've tried to read his books, though, and never end up finishing them. They're OK. But they never make a good enough case for me to put my life on hold to read them.

I'm just one reader.  I know he has many loyal fans out there who eagerly await his next novel.

But if, as he suggests, the demise of the book opens the floodgates to a slew of new writers, I'm inclined to rejoice.  That means new, untried writers who would previously have their work rejected so a publisher could publish the 96th Lake Woebegon novel will have the opportunity to find an outlet for their voice somewhere else.

The landscape of the publishing industry is changing so rapidly that even insiders require a GPS for navigation. 

For every established author who wails about the changes that are sweeping the World of Words, who see the new opportunities for writers as cause for alarm rather than cause for elation, I propose this:

Take your current novel.  Strip out everything that marks it as a sequel, that feeds upon past successes.  Change character and place names.  Make the manuscript able to stand on its own.

Then, write a synopsis of it.  Boil down the essence of the thing into a page or two.

Then, write a query.  Follow all the rules of getting the attention of an agent -- the one person who stands between you and a publisher. 

Submit that query to 10 agents under a pseudonym as if you were a first-time novelist.

Let me know how it goes.

Some writers with well-established fans might say, "I don't need to do that.  I've already paid my dues." 

I submit that the future of publishing -- with readily available new names and content -- will make "dues paying" less of an factor in a writer's success.  That may terrify the establishment.  I, however, find it an exhilarating thought.