A nibble

I got a nibble this week on a short story.

Confucius said a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step, and so too does the path to publication. But it's easy to lose sight of the progress, and it's difficult to take satisfaction from individual steps.

The first part of my journey involved writing and learning. I did this for two years before sending anything to magazines, agents, or publishers. The terrain was gentle and deceptively easy, but it still required stamina to reach that point where I was ready to put work out there.

The path quickly turned rocky. I amassed over a hundred rejection letters in a year or so, most were simply a copy of a form letter written decades ago. Sometimes it was just the manuscript with nothing inside, as if the work wasn't even worthy of a response.

It took strength to continue on.

The drive must come from within and without a fire burning, it's impossible to keep writing. And it's the writing that kept me moving, and eventually the steep grade eased up and I stumbled into Nibble Valley.

Here's what to look for in Nibble Valley:

The nibble might take the form of a handwritten note on one of those form rejection letters, perhaps it's a suggestion on where else you might send the piece. Sometimes it's a hastily written request for more material, and if you are really lucky, it's a phone call.

It's also a lifeline, an affirmation that your hard work is actually being recognized. Getting a nibble means that you are on the right path and if you have the courage to continue on, you will eventually get published. But a nibble can also be intoxicating and it can disappoint, so a writer must not get carried away.

I have been in Nibble Valley for about a year and have come across several nibbles. This week's nibble was a phone call from a magazine. It was in response to a new short story called "Weekend Number Five."

A few more words of caution about nibbles:

A 'but' often accompanies a nibble and it was no surprise to discover that this week's nibble came with a 'but.'

We loved your story, but we have already committed to a similar piece.

Occasionally a nibble contains a second but and that's usually a good sign. And this week's second 'but' was:

But we went to your web site and liked what we saw. We'd love to take a look at more of your work.

And so I forwarded three more stories.

A nibble provides energy and gives me the boost to keep going. But the thrill of hearing that someone likes my work will soon be replaced by doubt and fear.

I remind myself that writing is breathing and without breath, I can not live, therefore I must write.

If I keep true to this mantra, then it doesn't matter if this week's nibble disappoints. What does matter is that I keep writing, because if I do, I will eventually find my way out of Nibble Valley and into the Land of Publication.

Leaves

Year Six -- Week 25 -- November 17, 2003


To separate the trees from the forest you can wait for the leaves to drop, or ask a friend for help.

Every writer reaches a point where they lose perspective on a story – it could be the characters, the plot, the setting, or just a handful of words to create a falter in confidence. And that’s why feedback from trusted friends and family is such an important part of the process.

I am amazed that anyone would take the time to read an early draft. It’s a huge commitment, and it’s a great sign of friendship that I don’t take for granted. But feedback is tricky.

There’s an old adage in the advertising business – 50% of all ads are wasted, the trouble is, it’s hard to know which half. If a writer gets a 50% feedback hit rate, that would be a hall-of-fame response. Twenty-five percent would be good in my book, but it’s the writer’s job to figure out which twenty-five. And that is what the art of processing feedback is all about. It’s a skill that requires time to develop, and yet it's not spoken about much in the workshops I've taken.

Here’s what I’ve learned:

There is no right or wrong and there is no perfect solution.

Today’s answer becomes tomorrow’s problem.

Choose readers carefully and understand where they are coming from. Knowing who they read will help you sift through the comments. Often someone’s feedback is rife with the person’s bias.

To determine a person’s bent, I put them on a literary scale that ranges from black to white. Grisham is on the left, anchoring black, and Updike is on the right, holding down the white. I place LaCarre and Hiassen somewhere in the gray. Atwood and Sebold are creamy white – Clancy is jet black. I chose colors over a numeric scale to avoid judging writing styles.

I also put my work on this scale. The novel leans to the black, the short stories lean white. Often the comments I dismiss are those that attempt to push the piece toward the wrong color.

Also beware of readers that have just read a new book on writing, or one’s that have recently attended a workshop. Typically the hot topic for them will be the focus of your feedback -- I call that a pot luck critique, sample carefully.

Having several readers will also flush out the bias, but make sure you haven’t assembled a group of clones modeled after yourself.

When the same issue comes up from several people, that’s a good indication you should take the comment seriously. Fight the temptation to think they’ve all got it wrong, but don’t instantly cave-in either. They may have all cocked it up, and that’s what makes writing such a challenge. Ultimately, your gut has to make the call.

Someone at Squaw Valley this summer said don’t be afraid to kill your darlings. A darling is your favorite scene, a phrase or paragraph, something you fell in love with during an early draft that now has lost its purpose. It typically takes two or three readers to flag it before you’ll realize, and even then it’s damn hard to delete.

Phasing in readers is also important. And that’s where I am this week. I can’t believe that some of my readers have stuck at it for five years. I’ve recognized them on this website in the acknowledgment section, but it doesn’t hurt to thank them again – Mom, James, Karin, and Paul in particular -- thank you. And of course, Joy.

Unfortunately they’ve been along for the ride so long, they’ve lost as much perspective as I have. And that’s why this week I asked two folks from Squaw Valley to take a look at the novel – Michelle and Jim.

They were fresh and untainted and not bound by the early drafts. And their comments will help put the final touches on “The Sound of Money,’ but first I must sift through the feedback for those jewels of relevance.

I also spent the weekend raking leaves, which you may have noticed, provided the inspiration for this week’s photo. Now that they’ve all fallen, I can see the trees clearly in my backyard. In the case of my novel, it’s my readers that help separate the trees from the forest, and that's the secret to keeping them in view year 'round.

PS. Thanks to Danette, Phil, the Princess of Darkness and Denny Kingman for their help on the short story Weekend Number Five.

Heavy Equipment

Year Six -- Week 24 -- November 10, 2003


I broke out the heavy equipment to get the job done this week.

When I near the completion of a draft, doubt sets up camp in the backyard, waiting for the right time to pounce. I see her now through the window. She sits underneath the chestnut tree, staring into my workspace, smacking those ruby lips. She takes any scrap of opportunity, a slight hesitation, a momentary lapse in confidence, and boom, she’s in my head. And once she’s there, I can’t get rid of her. That’s why the last part of the novel is so hard to complete. The closer I get, the more opportunity she has.

At the end of a bad day, I typically reach a point where I think I'm useless. It's best for me to then shut down the computer, have a nightcap or two, sometimes three, and go to bed. The next morning I somehow get it together enough to hack away at where I left off. It’s my version of ‘Groundhog Day,’ but soon this cycle will be broken.

I have hope because the edges of Ms. Doubt are frayed. The realization hit home when my friend, Sloan Wainwright, gave me an excerpt from a letter that Martha Graham sent to Agnes DeMille. Sloan uses this in her songwriting workshops. Here it is:

-----
There is vitality, a life force, a quickening that is translated through you into action, and because there is only one of you in all time, this expression is unique.

If you block it, it will never exist through any other medium and be lost. The world will not have it. It is not your business to determine how good it is: nor how valuable it is: nor how it compares with other expressions. It is your business to keep it yours, clearly and directly to keep the channel open.

You do not even have to believe in yourself or your work. You have to keep open and aware directly to the urges that motivate you.

Keep the channel open. No artist is pleased. There is no satisfaction whatever at any time. There is only a queer, divine dissatisfaction; a blessed unrest that keeps us marching and makes us more alive than the others.
-----

I took a piece of this and scotch taped it to the face of my computer monitor. Each morning I recite it aloud before working.

It is not my business to determine how good my writing is, how valuable it is, or how it compares with other expressions. My job is to keep writing.

If it were only that easy.

I am the King of Judgment and my court of self-criticism is in session daily. I have accumulated multiple lifetime sentences and I am banned from seeing myself as an artist. I am not eligible for appeal or parole. Only publication is redemption, or so I thought.

Martha says, to be an artist is to never be pleased and to be continually dissatisfied with ones work. There is no doubt that I am never pleased, and I am always dissatisfied. So maybe I am an artist.

Neurotic might be a better word.

Regardless, my job is to keep the channel open and be aware of the urges that motivate me. Early on, power, greed and revenge, drove me to write. Six years later, those motivating factors have lost their vitality. There are much easier ways to make a buck and I long ago lost the anger.

I guess I thought I’d just hit it quick. I knew the odds of doing that were worse than winning the lottery, but I was arrogant enough to think I had talent and something worth saying, so I kept at it. For some, taking a year off to write a book is enough. They write it, get rejected, and return to whatever they did before, satisfied that they took their shot. They got it out of their system and believe that if they had really wanted to do it, they could have.

The thing is, if you are a truly writer, you can’t get it out of your system, and there’s the rub, the joy of the affliction. It’s what gets you through years of rejection, it’s that blessed unrest that keeps you marching and makes you more alive than others, and it’s inside me, and I am unable to do anything about it except to keep writing.

And so one day in the near future that novel will be finished.

A small forest

Year Six -- Week 23 -- November 3, 2003


A small forest gave up its life for my novel.

How did Shakespeare write without a computer? It seems impossible to me, a writer of the 21st century, a writer whose hand starts to ache after using a pen for more than ten minutes. And how did he make those final revisions with just ink, quill, and parchment? I tinker with words, sentences, paragraphs, and all too often, entire chapters. I add and subtract to a manuscript as if I’m firing a machine gun. I blast away at a page in hopes that at some point I’ll find the target. Eventually I get there, but not before wasting away reams of paper and numerous ink cartridges.

A computer is supposed to make us more productive, but if we are not careful, we will fall into the technology trap. In the sixties, it was “Better Living Through Chemistry.” That industry brought us white bread, TV dinners, and instant coffee, innovations that were all welcomed with open arms. Forty years later, what was simply considered food when I was a kid, has today blossomed into the fastest growing supermarket segment – organic. Will writers one day also face this technological backlash, where pen and paper are considered luxuries that we will pay a premium for?

Some say we have already hit the wall. Just take a look at the best seller list. Technology hasn’t improved the quality of the writing, they say, it has just enabled the industry to increase the amount of trash it publishes. Perhaps writers who came of age before the computer chose words more carefully. They had to, because it was so damn difficult to change and rearrange. Perhaps they also thought longer about what they wanted to say before actually putting pen to paper. I know that I am guilty of doing more thinking after I’ve written, and perhaps that explains the endless loop of editing that I find myself in at the moment.

Does the computer make writing and editing too easy? It’s a bit like the calculator -- you don’t need to know math anymore, just how to push buttons. Is it the same with writing?

It’s too late to do much about this novel, I’m almost done. But the next one will be different. First off, I’m going to use pen and paper for outlines and early drafts. And I will look for other ways to wean myself away from this technological habit. For instance, instead of hitting shift F7 for alternate words, I will pull out my hardcover Thesaurus. When I put a scene in the computer, I’ll print them out more often to edit manually instead of on-line. And to stay consistent, I’ll even pledge to balance my checkbook without a calculator.

Will these changes improve my writing? Not necessarily, but if it makes me feel better, then why not? Perhaps a few more trees will live, and with a little luck, I’ll be able to use a pen for more than ten minutes without cramping up. That's got to be worth something to somebody.