How to be a writer’s friend (or lover)

A writer friend of mine said to me recently, “I gave a story I’m working on to my boyfriend for his opinion and he just said, ‘It’s interesting.’ Nothing else. That’s it.” She was fuming.

Please note: This boyfriend is relatively new on the scene. He has no idea how he’s “supposed” to respond, bless his heart. I explained to her that when a writer gives a loved one a story or poem or novel excerpt, asking for feedback, it’s like extending an invitation to step on a landmine. Writers are, inherently, extremely sensitive. Often, if something makes it down on paper, it’s because it’s very important to us, on some emotional level. And if something makes it from our hands to yours, you should consider yourself lucky, but you should also be terrified.

If only it was this simple.

The day after I talked to my friend, she sent me a link to Shannon Hale’s blog, saying it had some good words of wisdom for those of us seeking to share writing with someone we love (and want to continue loving).

Here are her 5 tips:

1. Read it right away.
A manuscript sitting untouched on your side table for a month tells your loved one you don’t care. If you can’t read it right away, communicate that. Let her know when you’ll be able to start and when you expect to finish.

2. Always say something positive.
Being observed by the writer while reading can be an uncomfortable experience. Still, if it’s a novel, you can expect the writer to check in with you occasionally. “So, have you started? What do you think so far?” Always say something positive. Save any critical feedback for later, after you’ve read it all and sorted your thoughts. Otherwise, it’ll seem you’re just so anxious to point out faults you can’t wait. This is not only discouraging to the writer, but unhelpful.

3. Praise, praise praise.
After you’ve finished, sit down with your loved one and immediately and profusely praise the story. I know you want to get to what needs to change, but if you can’t see something worthwhile in it, the writer won’t be as responsive to the feedback. Hearing what worked is as important to the writer as what didn’t. Be specific, and sincere, in your praise. Think of ten separate things you liked and thought worked well.

Good examples:
“The opening was gripping.”
“I was really interested in Character X.”
“All the dialog between X and Y was so realistic.”

Bad examples:
“I really liked it, except for the middle part and the ending.”
“It wasn’t very hard to read.” Lame.
“You’re pretty good at punctuation.”

4. Offer constructive feedback.
After specifically and sincerely praising at least ten things, offer some constructive feedback. Limit yourself to 3 things. 3 specific things. Try to be as clear and concise as possible. No need to hammer it in. If you are not a professional editor, it’s best not to take the Voice of Authority here. Offer the suggestions in terms of what questions and confusions you had as a reader.

Good examples:
“I didn’t understand why X had to steal the magic dagger when she already had the magic sword.”
“I loved Y! I wouldn’t mind seeing more of him, especially in the second half.”
“X seemed to lie a lot, and that made me suspicious of her and made it hard for me to like her.”
“The part where they all turned into goatlings was confusing to me. I kept expecting them to get milked, because of the whole cheese theme, but when they didn’t I realized I must have missed something.”

Bad examples:
“It didn’t make sense. You should redo it all.”
“This part was really boring. Cut all of it.”

5. Honor the relationship, first and foremost.
Unless you’ve earned an all-access pass to criticism, don’t offer any more information or feedback unless asked (pressed!) to do so. She might not be able to absorb any more than those 3 things, and the more “feedback” you offer, the more criticism she’ll hear. Unrequested advice will always sound like criticism.

Remember, you not only want to be helpful to the writer but preserve your relationship. Spouses may find themselves couch-sleeping after being too helpful with the feedback. Let workshop companions and editors be the bad guy. You’re the loved one. You should be very cautious, my friend. Writers are sensitive little creatures.

>>Read the full post

To the list above, I would add one important thing:

**ASK QUESTIONS!**
I really appreciate when readers ask me questions about what I write — how I developed the characters, why the story came to me, etc. It shows they care and are interested in not only the story, but in me, as a person.

Hemingway to Fitzgerald: “Go on and write”

Yet another fascinating post from Letters of Note: Hemingway writing to Fitzgerald circa 1934, giving his opinion on Fitzgerald’s just-published Tender Is the Night. The book tells the story of Dick and Nicole Diver, a couple based on mutual acquaintances (Sara and Gerald) of both Fitzgerald and Hemingway.

Hemingway

What I like most about this letter is Hemingway’s brutal honesty. It comforts me, in a sick way, to see some of the harsh feedback. I suppose wanna-be novelists like me assume the Fitzgeralds of the writing world never dealt with harsh feedback. They did — from their friends, to boot.

Fitzgerald

Hemingway buries some excellent writing advice (for all of us) in this letter. And he has some misspellings and grammatical errors — bless his heart.

Copied and pasted from here. Enjoy:

Key West
28 May 1934

Dear Scott:

I liked it and I didn’t. It started off with that marvelous description of Sara and Gerald (goddamn it Dos took it with him so I can’t refer to it. So if I make any mistakes—). Then you started fooling with them, making them come from things they didn’t come from, changing them into other people and you can’t do that, Scott. If you take real people and write about them you cannot give them other parents than they have (they are made by their parents and what happens to them) you cannot make them do anything they would not do. You can take you or me or Zelda or Pauline or Hadley or Sara or Gerald but you have to keep them the same and you can only make them do what they would do. You can’t make one be another. Invention is the finest thing but you cannot invent anything that would not actually happen.

That is what we are supposed to do when we are at our best—make it all up—but make it up so truly that later it will happen that way.

Goddamn it you took liberties with peoples’ pasts and futures that produced not people but damned marvellously faked case histories. You, who can write better than anybody can, who are so lousy with talent that you have to—the hell with it. Scott for gods sake write and write truly no matter who or what it hurts but do not make these silly compromises. You could write a fine book about Gerald and Sara for instance if you knew enough about them and they would not have any feeling, except passing, if it were true.

There were wonderful places and nobody else nor none of the boys can write a good one half as good reading as one that doesn’t come out by you, but you cheated too damned much in this one. And you don’t need to.

In the first place I’ve always claimed that you can’t think. All right, we’ll admit you can think. But say you couldn’t think; then you ought to write, invent, out of what you know and keep the people’s antecedants straight. Second place, a long time ago you stopped listening except to the answers to your own questions. You had good stuff in too that it didn’t need. That’s what dries a writer up (we all dry up. That’s no insult to you in person) not listening. That is where it all comes from. Seeing, listening. You see well enough. But you stop listening.

It’s a lot better than I say. But it’s not as good as you can do.

You can study Clausewitz in the field and economics and psychology and nothing else will do you any bloody good once you are writing. We are like lousy damned acrobats but we make some mighty fine jumps, bo, and they have all these other acrobats that won’t jump.

For Christ sake write and don’t worry about what the boys will say nor whether it will be a masterpiece nor what. I write one page of masterpiece to ninety one pages of shit. I try to put the shit in the wastebasket. You feel you have to publish crap to make money to live and let live. All write but if you write enough and as well as you can there will be the same amount of masterpiece material (as we say at Yale). You can’t think well enough to sit down and write a deliberate masterpiece and if you could get rid of Seldes and those guys that nearly ruined you and turn them out as well as you can and let the spectators yell when it is good and hoot when it is not you would be all right.

Forget your personal tragedy. We are all bitched from the start and you especially have to hurt like hell before you can write seriously. But when you get the damned hurt use it—don’t cheat with it. Be as faithful to it as a scientist—but don’t think anything is of any importance because it happens to you or anyone belonging to you.

About this time I wouldn’t blame you if you gave me a burst. Jesus it’s marvellous to tell other people how to write, live, die etc.

I’d like to see you and talk about things with you sober. You were so damned stinking in N.Y. we didn’t get anywhere. You see, Bo, you’re not a tragic character. Neither am I. All we are is writers and what we should do is write. Of all people on earth you needed discipline in your work and instead you marry someone who is jealous of your work, wants to compete with you and ruins you. It’s not as simple as that and I thought Zelda was crazy the first time I met her and you complicated it even more by being in love with her and, of course you’re a rummy. But you’re no more of a rummy than Joyce is and most good writers are. But Scott, good writers always come back. Always. You are twice as good now as you were at the time you think you were so marvellous. You know I never thought so much of Gatsby at the time. You can write twice as well now as you ever could. All you need to do is write truly and not care about what the fate of it is.

Go on and write.

Anyway I’m damned fond of you and I’d like to have a chance to talk sometimes. We had good times talking. Remember that guy we went out to see dying in Neuilly? He was down here this winter. Damned nice guy Canby Chambers. Saw a lot of Dos. He’s in good shape now and he was plenty sick this time last year. How is Scotty and Zelda? Pauline sends her love. We’re all fine. She’s going up to Piggott for a couple of weeks with Patrick. Then bring Bumby back. We have a fine boat. Am going good on a very long story. Hard one to write.

Always your friend

Ernest

[Written on envelope: What about The Sun also and the movies? Any chance? I dint put in about the good parts. You know how good they are. You're write about the book of stories. I wanted to hold it for more. That last one I had in Cosmopolitan would have made it.]

Top 10 fictional antiheroes

Check out this interesting list from LitReactor.com, featuring fictional antiheroes — classic and modern day. Makes me realize I love a good antihero.

1. Dexter Morgan from Jeff Lindsay’s series beginning with Darkly Dreaming Dexter (2004). I’m fairly obsessed with the TV show.

2. Edward Rochester from Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre (1847). I refer to Mr. Rochester as every young woman’s foray into “bad guys.”

3. Hannibal Lecter from Thomas Harris’ Hannibal series beginning with Red Dragon (1981).

4. Holden Caulfiled from J.D. Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye (1951). This was the first book I read that made me want to write. I didn’t know characters like this could exist — flawed, rebellious, against the grain. I know I’m not alone in considering Holden Caulfield extremely liberating.


5. Jay Gatsby from F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby (1925). On my list of most intriguing characters (I have such a list, a mental one), Jay Gatsby is #1.

6. Lady Macbeth from Shakespeare’s Macbeth (about 1603). This crazy bitch scares me. Still.

7. Lisabeth Salander from Stieg Larsson’s Millennium series beginning with The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo (2005). This crazy bitch scares me too, but I’d still have coffee with her. I would not have coffee with Lady Macbeth.

8. Michael Corleone from Mario Puzo’s Godfather series beginning with The Godfather (1969). Never read it, not interested in reading it. Sorry.


9. Roland Deschain from Steven King’s The Dark Tower series beginning with The Gunslinger (1982). I’ve been told I need to read more Steven King. I’ll probably start with this one.


10. Scarlett O’Hara from Margaret Mitchell’s Gone with the Wind (1936).  I’m not sure I’d call Scarlett an antihero. Thoughts?

Ever wonder what your favorite characters look like?

A couple months ago, Brian Joseph Davis launched The Composites, a Tumblr that imagines the appearance of literary characters using in-book descriptions combined with composite sketch-rendering software. You know, the kind they use on CSI.

It’s kind of creepy, if you ask me, especially the one of Humpert Humpert from Lolita:


Um, yeah.

Here are some favorites, from books I love:

Ignatius J. Reilly from A Confederacy of Dunces

Sam Spade from The Maltese Falcon

Daisy Buchanan from The Great Gatsby

Tom Ripley in The Talented Mr. Ripley

>> Check out more (looks like he’s adding on a regular basis)

In memory of my journals

Since I was a kid, I’ve thought of “journal” as more of a verb than a noun. Some kids played handball, some skipped rope, some chased boys; I journaled. It was serious business, the kind of serious business that compelled me to ask my parents for a special birthday gift — a fireproof safe to house the notebooks I’d filled since elementary school. They got me two, because they love me so much (or because they were accepting of my insanity at a very early age). The rationale behind the safes was that 1) my insights on those pages were brilliant and should be protected; and 2) I would want to revisit that brilliance throughout my life. The truth is that I have never cracked open an old journal , or opened an old computer file – I went digital with my journaling in the last decade to save trees, space, and money spent on fireproof safes. I still keep the keys to my fireproof safes, but I don’t presume I’ll ever use them. This tells me that what truly mattered to me wasn’t the staying power of the insights, but the writing itself.


Journaling gave me a way of transferring nagging thoughts, anxieties and worries from my mind to paper (or screen). Those thoughts, anxieties and worries seemed more manageable at that arm’s length. Plus, with journaling, the mundane seemed meaningful; everyday people seemed intricate and detailed. I have to think this helped me hone some dramatic flair. If you’re wondering why I use the past tense when discussing my beloved journaling, it’s because I don’t do it anymore.

I stopped journaling a few years ago. It was a cold turkey kind of endeavor. It wasn’t hard though, like quitting an addiction. One day, I was just done. With journaling, I’d started to feel too “in my head”  instead of in the moment. I was mulling over things too long, giving too much importance to passing feelings that were just that — passing.

It’s not that I think writing turned nefarious for me. You should see my list-making capabilities. It’s just that I’ve come to realize I don’t need a secret place for my thoughts. I can just share them, openly. The quirks I thought were dreadful, the memories I thought were shaming, the opinions and beliefs and innermost fears I thought were embarrassing… just aren’t. I don’t need to keep anything locked away in a safe anymore. I’m pretty much an open book now.

I’ve started to wonder if that’s why I’m not writing fiction these days. In the past, I’ve communicated through short stories. I’ve sorted through issues and worked out who I was with fiction. Lately, I communicate through conversation. I don’t have many issues to sort through. And, I’ve worked out who I am. Mostly.

Is that all writing has been for me? Therapy, in a way? Do I just not need it anymore (or right now)? Do all writers feel this way, but some keep at it, persistent and disciplined and committed to making their therapy a career? I don’t know. Maybe I’ll write again one day. Until then, I’m just happy to be happy.

Here’s the thing

I’m not writing. At all. I mean, I’m writing for work, but that’s an entirely different animal.  I’m enjoying that animal. I just haven’t felt any need or desire to write fiction.

This truth has been looming for a while, but it really hit me today when I passed by a car with a bumper sticker that said, “Court reporters always get the last word.”

I chuckled. I imagined the driver (a court reporter, no doubt) getting a kick out of the sticker. I wondered about his/her life. I thought, “This is something I should scribble in my ‘writing ideas’ journal.” But then I thought, “Eh” and started pondering what to make for dinner.

I just wasn’t interested in delving into this imaginary person’s life. I haven’t been interested in delving into the imaginary life of anyone lately. It’s been this way for several months.

There was a time when I felt guilty about this lack of interest. I thought it meant I was lazy or unambitious. I have the ability to write short stories and novels, so I should. There’s that damning word — should. If you want to kill the pleasure in anything, throw a “should” in front of it.

I don’t feel guilty anymore. Fiction isn’t appealing right now because my nonfiction, my life, is. I feel very full up–with love, friends, family, work. And TV. Lots of TV. Yes, I have free time. Yes, I could open up the file for my last unfinished novel and work on it, but I don’t want to. And if that makes me sound like a tantrum-having child, I don’t care.

This isn’t a case of “writer’s block.” For me, writer’s block is all about wanting to write, but being unable. A sort of mental constipation. That’s not my problem. I don’t want to write. I don’t miss it. There are no words longing to get out. There are no characters bouncing around inside my head, begging to live on paper. When there are, I’ll know. It’s pretty difficult to ignore.

Regarding rejection slips

Oh, Snoopy, I feel ya.