10 Stupid Reasons To Write.
Starting with the stupidest.
“Writing makes horse-racing seem like a solid, stable business.” John Steinbeck
Fame has to be the stupidest reason to write. Personally, I can’t stand the idea of being famous unless it’s to displace some god-awful writer who should’ve been displaced long ago. The notion of sending E.L. James back to the literary boondocks intrigues me. I’d even help her pack.
She’s not going anywhere, though. She’s famous, and rolling in it, and every person sitting down to write these days wants to be “rolling in it,” too. They seriously think they will, based on one silly lady writing about sex. James knows as much about sex as a seal knows about Disneyland. That’s the thing about ridiculous books. They put the bar at eye-level with a seal.
And why not when vanity presses will publish anything that isn’t “racist, libelous, pornographic or completely illiterate.” Very few writers still sign with an X, and I’m sure vanity presses don’t look too closely at what might be considered pornographic.
The whole notion of “vanity” is believing you’re something you’re probably not, and vanity publishers aren’t there to dissuade you. They want your money, you want to be E.L. James. Vanity publishing is a gateway drug.
Writing is a meth habit without the meth.
Here’s the thing about writers. We’re addicts. Maybe not in the conventional sense, but we’re addicts just the same. We can’t not write. The reason is simple. We’re lousy at anything else. Kurt Vonnegut once admitted, “The only other thing I’m good at besides writing is swimming.” There’s no fallback for us. If you’re good at something else, do it. Leave writing to the junkies.
Stop being agreeable.
If people comment on your work and say, “I agree,” then run. A bunch of people agreeing amounts to nothing. Writing isn’t about winning friends. Like when Charles Bukowski said, “I kept writing not because I felt I was good, but because I thought they were bad, including Shakespeare.” Writers are always contrarians. If you aren’t making enemies, you’re pandering.
I have a book in me.
Maybe you do, maybe you don’t — but talking about it usually means you don’t. Writers — real writers — rarely talk about a work in progress. They don’t know if they’ve got a book or not. Better to do the work, then you can talk about it. Or as any comedian will tell you, “Never give the punchline first.”
First person or third person?
I see this on writer’s forums all the time. “Should I write this as myself, or as somebody else?” Here’s the easiest way to decide. Think of first person as something you’ve seen. Third person is something you’ve heard. And stay away from second person narratives. Turning you into “you” is a fast way to get a splitting headache.
For the fun of it.
William Zinsser once wrote about sitting on a panel with a famous dietician who said his book was “a blast to write.” Zinsser remarked that it’s hard work, and rarely fun. We all have our good days, but mostly it’s like, as Hemingway said, “blasting through rock.” Maybe dieticians can make it fun, but the rest of us are worried about rockslides.
Self-awareness is a cat’s pajamas.
The most irritating writing comes from people who say “I’ve found myself.” Suddenly, they’re experts, and we’re not. I call them “cat’s pajamas,” meaning you can put pajamas on a cat, but they won’t like it very much. Readers are the same way. They get tired of your so-called awareness. Wisdom is knowing when to speak. Awareness is knowing when to duck.
You’ll never find me in a remainder bin.
I used to think remainder bins were filled with lousy books. Then I found Elmore Leonard’s “Glitz” there, and realized it’s quite the opposite. Failure, in other words, is perception. There’s nothing wrong with a bad review or ending up in a remainder bin. Someone found my book on a seat at the airport once. They wrote to say they enjoyed it. “I was flying to Tokyo and I finished it on the way. Left it at arrivals. Looking forward to your next one. Where will I leave it, I wonder? Or what airport?”
Doubt…
All good writers are infested with doubt. Even Tennessee Williams admitted he expected to be exposed as a fraud any day (even after winning Pulitzers for Cat on a Hot Tin Roof and Street Car Named Desire). If you think you can live without doubt, you’ll probably end up with a vanity press. They love self-confidence. They’ll love it more when you write them a cheque.
I finished my first draft, now to find an editor.
No sillier words were ever spoken. The last thing any editor needs is a first draft. They aren’t there to write your book. They’re there to polish it. Think of a first draft as bark on a tree. Try polishing that. Leave your book for three months, then look at it with fresh eyes. Supposedly, fresh eyes never lie (not all the time, anyway). As far as rewriting goes, I rewrote my first novel five times, got an agent, rewrote it two more times completely, then did it again when his editors told him my book was crap.
