Friday, August 03, 2007

how not to talk to a writer: part two

All right, I’m ready to admit that this is more of a rant, and less of a “how-to” post. Nevertheless, here’s a little more insight into the opinions of this writer, and what makes her cringe when talking about her work.

“What do you write about?”

Most writers may welcome this question. To me, it’s on the same level as asking a complete stranger about their salary, or what they dream of at night. It’s private. We just don’t talk about things like that. In fact, I can’t tell you. So, I kind of wince, even though this is a perfectly innocent question.

And if I do decide to answer, how do I go about that? My short stories often involve at least one marvelous, quirky elderly person. But some of my stories don’t. My essays often look back to my time in Europe; my poetry circles back to childhood but also to what I saw yesterday. And as for the novel that I’m working on most, it’s a young adult novel. Sort of historical. Sort of fantasy. A retelling of a story you’ve probably heard before. Another novel idea features a Dickens-reading fourth-grader. Another has a huge cast of characters, and addresses death, British estates, community-building, and pirates, if I can squeeze them in. And yet another novel idea is a Don Quixote retelling, with a huge and ridiculous twist. But the twist is private. I can’t tell you ...

If I hedge on talking about my writing, this is the typical follow-up question: “You can tell me what it’s about. It’s not like I’m going to steal your idea—I’m not a writer!”

There are a lot of writers who fear the Idea Thieves. I suppose such a thing can happen. But there’s another school of Writers Who Won’t Tell, for a different reason, and I am one of them.

My answer is that horrible break-up line: It’s not you, it’s me. Truly! I can’t talk about my idea, even though I know that you would never dream of writing it first.

But if I talk about my project, I use up the energy that drives me to write it. This sounds hokey, but have you ever talked about something you were absolutely sure you were going to do? Organizing a garage, redecorating a room, hosting a massive party or event. Maybe you even planned it all out—dog eared your catalogs, made lists of supplies needed and things to do. You talked it up, people grew interested… and then, you didn’t feel like doing it anymore. All the pizzazz of the idea vanished into the build-up. (Tell me that this doesn’t happen to just me.)

If I did this to my book, disaster. If I tell six or fifteen or thirty-two of my closest friends all about the plot twists, surprise ending, the unlooked for character entrance… then my desk looks dull, and my enthusiasm, energy, and creativity are spent. Not telling is a way to bottle that excitement, and pour it into my keyboard and drafts. And so I don’t say anything about my plot, not to anyone.

“Hey, I know what you could write! Have you ever thought about a novel on stem cell research/your ancestors/the Civil War/the difficulties of adopting?”

Suggesting ideas to a writer is fine, but please don’t be offended if we don’t light up, claim to have found our muse, and rush home to write about the topics you are passionate about. This might sound obvious to some of you, but plenty of people are ready to offer writing projects to those of us who write. It’s a widespread phenomenon!

During my senior year, I was once followed around by a girl who found out I wanted to be a writer. I don’t know why she reacted this way, but everywhere we went, she persistently asked, “Are you going to write a story about this? Are you going to write a story about that? Are you going to write a story about that???” 

We were walking through a grocery store. Looking at banana displays, a kid swinging from a shopping cart, an employer at the top of a ladder. Macaroni boxes.

I probably didn’t handle this well. But no, thank you, my next epic isn’t going to be The Store, an exposé on the grocery-shopping habits of the middle class, told through the eyes of a twenty-one year old. Tempting though that is. (Sounds like a thriller, doesn’t it?)

Honestly, does anyone follow bankers around and say “Would you sell a loan for that tractor? How much is this telephone worth? Is that can-opener a good investment?” Or to a painter: “You could do a still life of the ceiling, this patch of carpet, the fishbowl, the dirty dishes…”

Maybe this girl thought she was giving me good material; maybe she was just laughing at me. (I suspect the latter.)

It’s like telling people you’re on a diet: Suddenly they all want to help you eat right, as they inhale cheesecakes. “Should you be having that? Here, I brought carrot sticks for you.” It’s really not your business, but thanks for your concern. Again, does this happen to other people? Let me tell you how to teach. Let me tell you how to change that tire. Let me tell you how to perform heart surgery.

(If this happens to you in your career, please, post a comment and educate me!)

At the risk of sounding completely contrary: It’s also difficult when people ignore me and what I do. They know what to ask about other people’s careers… They can talk to college students about their majors and their plans; they can talk about other, identifiable occupations.

But when confronted with a writer, what do you say? Especially if you’ve read these blogs, and I stole all your ideas.

I admit that it’s tricky. Perhaps simplest is best. How are you? How is your work going? And let them take it from there.

I—and other writers as well—do appreciate encouragement, however touchy this “what-do-you-do” subject may be. I love hearing that people believe in me, because I spend most of my writing time terrified, and trying to distract myself from feeling that way. I try to psych myself up. You can do it! Professor Van So-and-so liked your stuff. (That was totally a fluke. Never happen again. I had it once; I lost it. It’s probably because I’m not reading as many classics, or as much Annie Dillard/Shakespeare/poetry/Anne Lamott as I was then.)

There! Now I’ve had my rant and can breathe easier. I’m not as testy as this makes me sound (I think)... but after a year of painfully announcing, “Yup, I’m a writer, I have no clue what that means or what I’m doing, and I know I can’t make any money” I had some thoughts stored up. Thanks for listening.—jl

Note: To those who are still interested: My novel has passed the 13,600 word count, in its timid, two-steps-forward, one-step-back, shuffling way.

Posted by Jenn Langefeld on 08/03 at 02:59 PM
(4) Trackbacks • Permalink

<< Back to main