Friday, July 20, 2007

how not to talk to a writer: part one

Not surprisingly, I spend much of my time at a slim desk in my bedroom, facing a few pictures of Paris and a host of inspirational writing quotes. (With each new dawn, every writer gets a second chance to write well.—Eric Maisel) When I do venture outside and meet new people, at church or among friends, the questions come up: what do I do, and how do I do it.

I’ve never thought of myself as easily offended, but I’ve been surprised at the way others talk to and about writers. It’s not really their fault: While a lot of people read books, most don’t know what to say when confronted by someone who writes them. Or, even worse, someone who hasn’t written one yet but claims she will.

And so, announcing my vocation has stopped many fledgling conversations—sometimes the speaker gets a deer-in-headlights look, nods, and finds someone else to talk to. Or, they interrogate me about my topics, my publication record, my ambitions, my attitude, my potential audience, and my current project(s). Then I get the deer-in-headlights look and sneak away.

Hence, this post and the next. Based on questions I’ve been asked and conversations I’ve had, and from what I’ve heard from other writers, here is how not to talk to a writer.

“So, do you have a real job?”

I’ve tried answering this a number of ways. “Writing is my real job” makes me sound like a fragile, artistic type, a bit too defensive. And it stalls the conversation. But a flat “no” denies everything I believe about my work.

I’ve settled for a kind of in-between answer: I try to talk brightly about how I work between five and six hours a day with my writing and researching, and spend the rest of each day reading other writers’ works and taking care of things around the house. I try to stress how entwined my brain is with my story right now. Sometimes I mention last summer’s job in a bookstore, and how spending thirty hours a week there strangled my writing life.

Then I’m back to being the fragile, artistic type.

So, first tip: Don’t ask writers if they have a real job. If a person calls herself a writer, that is her job. Or, to use a broader and truer word, it is her vocation. An unsettling claim, perhaps, particularly when talking to people who believe that T.S. Eliot did more good for the world as a banker than he ever did as a poet. And, from this kind of person, I’ve been told I can be any number of other, “legitimate” jobs, while still being a faithful writer. Some were good, English-major positions, like editing or bookselling. Others said I could be a pharmacist or an engineer or even a calculator-manual writer. (In other words: Do something that would make you hate yourself every day.)

Now, of course it’s true that most writers have other jobs, other forms of employment that come with salaries, benefits, and companionship. And this can be good to talk talk about ...

But I want to avoid the assumption that Writing isn’t a real job. It doesn’t count. And there are plenty of people who think this way, or at least, they act as if they do.

Perhaps the secret suspicion is that if I’m not answering directly to a tangible boss, then I’m sleeping till one and watching TV for the rest of each day.

Au contraire.

This is not easy work. It isn’t simple. It’s extremely difficult to put myself through my paces each day, and then to be satisfied with the result. It’s the hardest thing I’ve done, difficult though that may be to believe. But I don’t have four thousand other students striving alongside me, sympathizing with a heavy work load, and I don’t have a handful of professors giving me daily feedback.

It’s me, my desk, my ears, and my idea. And that’s it. And it’s never good enough. So no, writing is not one glorious picnic. There are a few ants.

A corollary to the job question is: “You know that you’re not going to make any money doing this, right?”

Someone said this, to my face, last spring, when my dreams of becoming a writer were fresh, and as I was turning my back on becoming an editor. And having a steady income. This whole idea of writing terrified and excited me. I can’t remember exactly what I said in response to this person; I promise I didn’t hit her. She meant well. She was talking to an extremely ambitious, naive, hopeful college student and didn’t want me wandering away starry-eyed and sure that I could be the next J.K. Rowling.

Yes, if I let myself think about it, I will get scared about supporting myself in the future. Yes, I may end up taking a salaried job someday.

But I have also learned that fears are loud, blind, insistent, and, at least partially, untrue. They are based on a world that is limited to what I can see and hear. (Is it ever a good idea to cut God out of the picture?)

So, statistically, I will be unable to support myself. Perhaps, in reality as well, that will be true. But since I can only see the next brick on my path, and since that brick says WRITE, as forcefully and insistently as possible, that’s what I’m doing.

I appreciate the alarm that other people have about my finances. It’s not for no reason that the typical image of a writer involves a cold garret, threadbare clothing, no food, and quantities of alcohol. Someday I may have two jobs, one to make a living, and one to make novels, but today, I’m living on grace, grace, and grace.—jl

SECOND DRAFT UPDATE: I’m cleaning up a rough version of Chapter Two. Chapter Three starts next week!

Posted by Jenn Langefeld on 07/20 at 01:07 PM
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