Blake Snyder died yesterday morning. I knew him only by way of our interview, but in that short time I felt privileged to have talked to a man so warm and so excited about writing screenplays. I was surprised to learn he was 58. Perhaps his face had come to show some of those years, but his voice was all youth and all joy for the process of writing and teaching,
I learned about Blake because of the address he gave at the 2008 Pacific Northwest Writers Conference. Though he had sold twelve screenplays in Hollywood bidding wars, Blake remained passionate about teaching and sharing all that he had learned in over twenty years in the business. This is a good example for all writers to remember. It is easy to get caught up in building your career and making as many contacts as possible and hustling here and bustling there, but perhaps the best networking tool of all is generosity. Give freely whenever you can, and it will come back twofold.
Usually, after I sign off from an interview, I keep the author on the line for a few more minutes for an extended, informal chat. This is a preference of mine, simply because I like to talk to writers, and not usually what the authors are expecting. In Blake’s case, however, after I clicked the record button off, Blake said, “Great! Let’s keep talking.” I wish we could still.
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Writers sometimes complain about the terrors of the blank page, but we all know how delicious a project can be before it has actually begun. There in its fetal beginning, the new book is pure potential, not yet tangled up in a slow opening, a confusing middle, or a flat ending.
To an editor, I have just learned, new writers are this way also. At the recent PNWC, I listened to several editors describe the delight of working with new authors. After all, what is more exciting for an editor than discovering the next . . . whomever? Editing stories and working with writers is satisfying, but to be there at the beginning of something big is a reward in and of itself. And until that first book actually hits the shelves, any first time novelist could be that next big thing.
Secondly, just as your unwritten novel doesn’t yet need to trim 100 pages, so too the first-time novelist doesn’t have a track record working against him or her. The editor is free to pitch the writer’s potential to her sales team, as opposed to reassuring them that the last book, which didn’t quite sell through, had been an anomaly.
So take heart, new writers. The editors are looking for you. I admit it would not have occurred to me until this past weekend that this was the case, but of course it makes all the sense in the world. Editors are not that different than writers—or anyone else for that matter. They take comfort in what works, but are thrilled by what is new. So dare to be you, because if you’re still unpublished, to some editor out there you are pure potential.
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I have found myself again and again talking to writers and agents and editors this weekend about marketing. Bob Mayer, an author of over 40 books and a prolific teacher and speaker, was particularly pointed on the subject. He felt that a lot of time is spent teaching writers how to write while not nearly enough is spent teaching writers how to be authors. I thought it was a great distinction, and absolutely germane even to relatively new writers.
To define my terms, I consider an author someone who has decided to make a career of writing. Most new writers focus all their attention on just getting a book published. That seems hard enough; that seems like enough of an accomplishment on its own. Which it is. But I would encourage you to look ahead, and even if you haven’t published much yet, begin thinking of yourself as an author.
From a purely practical standpoint, it is useful, should you get a book published, to have an idea of what is going to be expected of you. You will save a lot of time if, before the deal, you learn about websites, blogs, speaking engagements, promotional materials, rewriting—all the nitty-gritty that comes with being published writer. We endeavor to teach as much of this as possible in Author.
But there is a somewhat less practical but equally important reason to view yourself not merely as a writer looking to get published but actually a writer in the process of building a career as an author. If you allow yourself to think about life after the book deal, you can begin to put publication into its proper perspective. Publication is not the end goal. It is nothing more than a milestone, pleasant to reach, but quickly moved on from, because life forever calls you forward.
Allow the goal of publication to shrink; allow it to become a small, attainable thing. If you do, you might be able to get a glimpse of what lies beyond it, all the wealth of choices this one opportunity provides. If you have set the trajectory of your life farther forward, you will be carried that much faster, and what once seemed like a final destination reveals itself as a simply the farthest sport of land you could see when you began your journey.
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As you read this, I will be ensconced somewhere at the SeaTac Hilton, conferencing. I have written this in the past, but I will do so again now: if you are working to become a professional writer, at some point it would be a good idea to get yourself to a writer’s conference. If you live anywhere remotely near Seattle, The Pacific Northwest Writers Conference is certainly one of the better around, but writer’s conferences are held in all corners of the country.
I am not going to lie to you. Writers come to conferences to, among other things, hone the tools of their craft, but they have come for something else—The Question. There is always a low current of fear running through a writer’s conference. It is the fear that quietly haunts not just writers but anyone attempting anything: Am I enough? Can I live the life I want to live, or must I accept a lesser version, bowing to the hardboiled wisdom that life is about a certain amount of disappointment and being a grownup means accepting that truth with minimum complaint?
You see it’s never about being a writer, I don’t think. In fact nothing is ever about anything, by which I mean, the central question is never, Am I strong enough, pretty enough, smart enough? The question is always, Does it matter? Does it actually matter how strong, pretty, or smart I am at this moment? I would ask you to consider that it does not matter how strong or smart or pretty your are. I would ask you to consider that that question of enough, enough of anything, is a subtle but ever-shrinking prison. It assumes your a fixed commodity, bound by the roulette wheel of birth, looking to discover not what it is you want to do, but what tools fate handed you and with which you will now stoically make the best.
You are not bound by anything. You are hurled forward by desire. These tools, these talents, are nothing more than desire made flesh, not the other way around. Seek what you love absolutely and I guarantee the tools will be there.
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For the record, if you live in the Pacific Northwest, and you are reading this somewhere without air conditioning, you are probably sweating. Strange thing with weather, however, is that stories of heat waves or cold streaks are about as inspiring as stories of someone coming down with and then getting over a cough. One thing everyone knows for certain about weather—it will change. That is hot or cold or wet or dry on a given day is almost never of any consequence to anyone other than the one who is hot or cold or wet or dry.
Unless, that is, the hot or cold or wet or dry precipitated some kind of change within the person experiencing it. Now we have a story. If someone were climbing a mountain, say, the extreme cold of the mountain becomes one more thing the climber must endure, and perhaps he begins bitter but by the end of his climb comes to accept the cold the way a character in a different story might come to accept death.
Weather is also useful when it serves as a (hopefully) subtle reminder of something the character is feeling. In A Farewell to Arms it is always raining when something bad happens. In Finding Nouf, a mystery set in modern day Saudi Arabia, Zoë Ferraris fills the novel with the relentless heat of the desert, which serves as a nice backdrop for the suffocating social requirements central to the novel.
All of which reminds me yet again that setting description simply for description sake is never as compelling as descriptions that in some way reveal what a character is feeling. Feeling is all. Weather is yet another physical fact surrounding your characters, the same as the peeling paint, the barking dog, and the green grass. What you choose to describe has everything to do with what the characters exposed to it are feeling at the moment.
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I remember the day I realized that none of my friends or family actually cared whether or not I ever had any success as a writer; all they wanted was for me to be happy. This seemed very callous to me at the time, until I admitted that I had the same hopes for them. I didn’t care so much about the particulars of the lives of those people I loved—whether they married or became teachers or sold that screenplay—I only wanted them to be happy.
In fact, all the details of our lives, the grievances, the losses, the victories, the midnight fears—none of these are actually of any concern to anyone but ourselves. We all know, in our hearts, that the suffering of another will eventually pass, perhaps to be replaced by yet more suffering, but pass nonetheless. When we look at another, what we most often see is a complete soul marred only by some thought—a thought that is ultimately none of our business.
One of the first challenges of the writer is to separate our lives from what our lives have taught us. None of your readers care about you, you in the small sense, you who must think your thoughts, who must choose what to have for breakfast, who wonders what your friend meant by that little aside, who is wounded and is healed. All our readers care about is what we have learned from all these little battles we call our lives.
And as well they should. Those battles were only ever there to teach us. The battles aren’t the point; they are the vessel for the cargo that is understanding. Share then your cargo not the vessel. No one will ever really care about your life, but they will care about what you have learned. Because if all these struggles align themselves to teach us what we must learn, so too does the teacher arrive when the student is ready. You are both the teacher and the student. Let the light of what you have learned shine through so your students might find you.
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I made the mistake last night of watching a movie right before I went to bed. My wife has pointed out that I seem to have too weak a filtration system for this sort of thing. I’m a bit of sponge, it turns out, and when the movie in question is addictively interesting to me but also incredibly violent—as this one was—the result is a very restless night’s sleep.
So I dreamed of murder and bodies in bed sheets and woke up very glad for the sunrise. I have tried to explain to some friends of mine, many of whom are devotees of action/gangster movies, my aversion to watching execution of any kind – that is, I take no stand against it aesthetically, I just can’t stomach it personally – and they have come to accept me as likeable movie wimp.
But the movie brought to mind something that I can often forget: stories do affect people. It’s easy while caught up in the business of trying to become a writer to lose sight of the reason we write, which is to communicate with other people. Because once the book has been written, and once you find an agent, and once the agent finds a publisher, and once the publisher gets the book into bookstores, at some point a person, just a regular person, is actually going to pick that book up and read it for the same reason you pick up books and read them—to be moved and entertained.
You will affect people. People will think about what you’ve written, and maybe cry and laugh about it. And this fact will be surprising and maybe even a bit alarming. Yes, it will be nice to get paid to write, and yes, it will be nice to be your own boss, but in the end, if you look at it honestly, you will see that the responsibility that comes with writing—no matter the genre—outweighs any personal gains to your lifestyle. The money will be spent, your hours will come and go, but the reach of your words will endure beyond the book jacket.
With this in mind, what then do you most want to share?
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Jennifer Paros has a great article about mistakes in this month’s issue. I think that what we call mistakes are often most misunderstood when viewed from the outside in. That is, a writer we love puts out a book we find mysteriously unsatisfying. What has happened? Are they slipping? Critics, sensing blood, might even rip that writer, declaring that she has spent her creative juice.
This always assumes that each book is a discrete event disconnected from the last or the next. But nothing is discrete, really; the book jackets merely contain a portion of your ideas. Which is to say, one book grows from the last and into the next. Mistakes are usually the artist attempting to grow, and growth is not always pretty.
But grow we must. So be kind to yourself as you find your way. We are always seeking the new, the new, the new. Eventually what used to work for us will not, because like it or not we ourselves have changed. This will be uncomfortable as we resist letting go of some familiar story or another. And then it will be uncomfortable perhaps again as we begin exploring the new direction for our work.
So it must be. I ran the high hurdles in high school, a race that requires maximum flexibility. At first, I would dread the stretching exercises I had to put myself through before I started my training. My hamstrings burned as I touched my toes. But after a time I came to expect and then, after more time still, enjoy the burning—what had begun as pain became instead what I knew expansion felt like.
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China Miéville writes novels that take place in worlds of his own invention. This presents particular challenges, namely, how does one reveal this world to the reader while also carrying on with the business of telling the story. After all, if I set a book in modern New York, most readers immediately have their own stock images of that city; as a writer I need only fill in the most telling details.
But in a world of a writer’s own invention the reader begins with a blank canvas. How then to paint this picture efficiently and with narrative oomph? Interestingly, China believes (as do I) that it is most often what the writer chooses not to describe that gives the most fantastic worlds their own sense of verisimilitude. For instance, by simply mentioning (but never describing) Mount Cragmore, or Oracon 6, or The Army of Nin, the writer invites the reader to give flesh to the world of the novel using his or her own imagination.
Lazy? Not at all. Every writer does this every time they write. As uber-realistic writer Andre Dubus pointed out, we are only seeking the “essential details” when we describe a setting—the rest is left to the reader’s imagination. As it should be. Everyone believes what they decide for themselves. You can’t tell your readers that your protagonist is angry, you must, as you know, show that your protagonist is angry, and then let the reader make up their mind for themselves.
All art, writing included, is the discipline of living empty space. We create fertile open spaces for our audience’s imagination to flourish. It is the greatest gift you can give. By trusting your reader to finish your work for you, you are allowing them to make their world their own, which it always has been and always will be—a truth so constant and reassuring we can often forget it.
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A confession—I can get kind of grumpy, especially when my work is interrupted. Recently, my father-in-law had surgery and so my assistance was needed upon his release from the hospital. The very threat of my writing schedule being impinged on, albeit for such a worthy cause, put me in a state. Worst yet, I didn’t know why I was in such a state until the inevitable dust-up between my wife and I when all the ugliness was revealed.
Perhaps I am unique in this dysfunction, but I think not. Most writers I interview—at least those who keep a daily writing regimen—report a similar experience. Their writing is interrupted for a few days and the next thing they find themselves barking at their children and spouse for the smallest infractions.
As if there is not enough time to get done all that needs doing. Everything always gets done. It’s never about the time, it’s about the connection. A teacher I much admire said that when someone we love dies it is not the person we so miss but the connection to Life that we experience through our relationship with that person. The same is true of missing your writing. Everyone always wants to be connected to Life—or their soul, or God, whichever suits you—whether they are aware of it or not. For writers, that connection often occurs through the writing.
But we mustn’t forget that that connection is always available, every single moment of every day no matter where we are or what we are doing. It is Life’s enduring promise. We have perhaps identified with reassuring certainty that we can find this connection while writing, but we mustn’t become too enamored with familiarity. It is like realizing you love pizza and so deciding you must eat it every night.
There will always be enough pizza, and there will always be enough time to write if writing is what we want. Because more important even than writing is Life itself. It is thing, after all, we are all writing about.
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