Writers in the early stages of their paths sometimes have misconceptions about what lies behind the publication everybody else seems to be enjoying:
Like what really matters is whom you know. That conspiracies and invisible walls keep newcomers relegated to the rejection pile. Or that writers — always female writers, go figure — have slept their way to this or that sale.
Not to deny the occasional aberrant exception, or the value of professional connections.
Still, in the main, it’s nonsense. Tempting, comforting nonsense.
It always pains me to encounter writers who have made the irrelevant the focus of their frustration and energies. And I don’t know which effect is worse: that it reinforces a sense of helplessness, of events being entirely out of their control. Or that it takes the focus away from what actually does matter … the harder truth that some people would rather not face.
The event: A convention of creators and fans. When and where, exactly, forgotten. But that doesn’t matter.
The place: A panel of editors. The overriding topic, forgotten. That doesn’t matter either.
The question, from an audience member to multi-award-winning editor Stephen Jones: “What do I have to do to get into one of your anthologies?”
His answer: “Write better stories.”
Sometimes it really is that simple.
Yes, better is subjective. Better can be a tricky thing to judge about yourself. And better has some powerful enemies. Like complacency. And self-satisfaction. And the urge to stop and stick the label “Good enough” on something when being just good enough … isn’t.
While you’re overcoming those, you do have some yardsticks to measure yourself by. You do have a basis for comparison.
The yardsticks: All the books that light you up inside. All the work that made you not only want to write, but believe you really could. All the stories in an editor’s previous volumes that you would’ve been competing against, and maybe did.
The message: “If I’m going to get here, I have to be at least this good.”
The formula: Write better stories. Write better novels. Work yerass off. And don’t stop.
Sometimes it really is that simple.
And that’s what makes it so hard.
Awesome people share.
You are awesome, aren’t you…?
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I’n new to this game and the one thing I have learnt is that this isn’t an easy business to get into. I know there are tough times ahead of me but its posts like this that keep me spurring on. I’m learning everything I can whilst writing and this only makes me want to try harder and get better. Thank you.
It’s like “butt in chair.”
@Debbie: You’re very welcome. I’m glad this clicked with you.
@Stacy: Exactly. And maybe augmented with “eyes on the prize.”
Yes, Mr. Hodge, that approach *may* work for the talented writer, but you obviously overlook the useless wanna-bes out there, like me for instance. I am a terrible writer and rarely sit down to write anything at all, but where’s MY opportunity? Where is the advice for my ilk?
Time to broaden your readership, sir!
Now, Kurt. We all know your forte is rounding up the most disturbing collection of Facebook profile pictures in the solar system. My advice? Embrace that and redouble your efforts! For instance, I haven’t seen anything on there yet that looks like it was shot with an gastrointestinal camera.
I always found Ray Bradbury’s “ZEN AND THE ART OF WRITING” to be an imvaluable book for any writer, of any level. He doesn’t hammer grammar rules; he just gives you life lessons and guidelines by which to live, to gather your stories over time, and how to craft yourself into a true creator.
Huh. That one seems to have flown completely by my radar. I’ll have to pick that one up. Thanks! Bradbury needs to be canonized. Halo, the whole works.
I was just thinking about him yesterday, coincidentally enough … remembering this anecdote that pretty early in his life, he tossed out a bunch of things like old comic books, etc., that he’d been led to feel he should’ve outgrown. Before long he was practically inconsolable about it, and vowed from that point on to never let anyone else dictate what he loved.
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