When I was younger, I worked in restaurants. I started when I was thirteen years old (illegally, obviously), but I was good at it and moved up quickly whenever I started at a new restaurant. Depending on a restaurant’s needs, I was either a line cook (a cook who worked one or more “stations,” such as the sauté station, the grill station, the salad station, the fry station, etc.), or I was the expo, the expeditor. The expeditor calls the shots in the kitchen when it comes to plating food prior to the servers bringing the food out to the customers. Part of my job sometimes required me to clean the vents over the stoves, the fryers, etc. I remember slipping one time while I was cleaning the vents over the fryer. My entire arm went into the oil, right up to my bicep. I thank the universe that the fry guy had turned the fryer off probably an hour or so earlier. I maybe even kissed the guy and bought him a beer. Life would have sucked if I’d lost my right arm or, at best, just the skin. I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have been able to write, though maybe that would have been a good thing. And that’s what today’s blog is about: ensuring you have the will to keep writing when things get dirty, when things get depressing and seem hopeless. When you feel like I did the moment my arm fell into that fryer so many years ago. Well, that, and writing what you know, because that’s what often helps me get around the not writing part of writing. When you write, write what you know and hope for the best, but don't expect anyone to care.
This sentiment is what got me thinking about this topic: someone threw a post up on Facebook yesterday (I won’t mention who), complaining about the lack of sales of the novel they’d written. They complained that only family members bought their books (this is not an uncommon reality for a lot of writers, especially self-published ones), and many of them didn’t even bother to read the book(s) said author wrote. So, the writer was announcing to everyone that they were going to quit writing. Writing was too hard. There was no payoff. Why bother?
I’ll tell you why bother. Because you’re a writer. If you’re not, if you’re going to quit because of a lack of sales, then you’re in the writing business for the wrong reasons. Take up selling software. Give mowing lawns a shot. Be an accountant. I’ve mowed lawns. I love being outdoors. But after a while the monotony of cutting grass gets to me. My knees ache. My back aches. And the back of my neck, no matter how much sunblock I put on or hats I wear, looks like I’ve spent a week with college kids in Panama City drinking shit beer from koozies with semi-funny slogans on them like “Emotional Support Koozie,” “Bad choices make great stories,” and “Boogie ‘til you barf.”
Like many writers, I’ve had a lot of different jobs. We’re outcasts. We’re outsiders. But as writers, it’s in our blood. We don’t write to make money, though that would be nice. Who doesn’t want to get paid for what we love? For our passion? For this thing we can’t not do? But that’s just it: writing is what we love. It’s our passion. It’s something that we, as writers, as artist, can’t not do. And if you’re going to quit writing because you aren’t making money, that’s fine. You’re free to bash it, get upset about your lack of sales, or your lack of writing (as you know I don’t believe in writer’s block), your lack of recognition, or landing an agent, a publisher, whatever. But if you are a writer, if you are unable to quit, then keep on truckin. If the urge to quit is greater than to continue, give it up. It ain’t for you, and that’s fine. You’ll have a lot less heartbreak. A lot less disappointment. Your days will be freer to do the things writing takes away from your already busy life. It’s your choice. Make it. If you need a little vent session before getting back to work, cool. But if you want to quit, just quit. Save yourself the angst.
Like many writers, I’ve had a lot of different jobs. We’re outcasts. We’re outsiders. But as writers, it’s in our blood. We don’t write to make money, though that would be nice. Who doesn’t want to get paid for what we love?
Now, if you want to write, I recommend you follow the old adage, “write what you know.” Again, as I’ve mentioned in previous posts, writing what you know doesn’t mean you have firsthand experience doing it. Reading, we know, is a great way to gain knowledge that you can use in your writing. So are interviews. And documentaries. Hell, even podcasts. If you need very specific information and you learn best in a classroom, sign up and audit a class. All of these things are available to you, and they’ll help you “know” what you want to write about. You don’t have to be Tami Hoag to write a murder mystery, and you don’t have to murder anyone to write one either. Plus, you won’t get arrested and spend the rest of your life in prison because you needed that firsthand research. You also don’t have to blast off on a ten-minute jaunt to space with Jeff Bezos to write about what it’s like going sixty-six miles above earth. You can read about the experience from newspaper clippings (or on the internet). That’s the absolute beauty of writing—when you’re writing, you are God. You write what you want to write. You take concepts your readers (and you) can get into, and you drive that car wherever you want, however you want, and you crash that car, or you don’t, drive it off a cliff or just sit in it as your characters, Rudy and Oscar, ponder life. It’s your choice.
May Sarton, who passed away in 1985, said, “Anyone who is going to be a writer knows enough at 15 to write several novels.” And it’s true. Christopher Paolini started working on his novel, Eragon, at age 15 (it was published when he was 18 or 19). At 19 he became a New York Times bestseller. Remember when you were 15? I’m pretty sure I wasn’t writing 544-page novels. I’m also pretty sure I didn’t have the life experience most older authors would consider worthy of writing a novel worth a damn. But as writers we need to push aside the doubt. We need to find ways to get to where we want to be, which, in our case, means pushing forward when everything is stacked against us—just like everything is stacked against our characters. We scale walls. We look behind curtains. We push our way through the things that get in our way, including doubt. Including feedback we don’t really want to hear. Including a lack of sales on Amazon, B&N, or wherever. If you’re a writer, you write. And revise. And rewrite. You don’t quit. You can’t quit. Quitting isn’t an option.
Anyone who is going to be a writer knows enough at 15 to write several novels
--May Sarton
If you need to take a break, take a break. I sometimes don’t write for a month. I write fiction and nonfiction, but fiction, and in particular novels, is what I enjoy writing. It’s what I do best, I think. Sometimes I write crappy novels that’ll never see the light of day. I write first drafts that I think are great, which aren’t. My writing pals are the best—they let me know what’s not working and they send me off to fix what’s broken. Or not—it’s my choice. If I’m passionate enough about getting Rudy lured to the Rio Grande Gorge Bridge just outside of Taos so that Oscar can push him off of it and collect the million-dollar policy he put on him a few days after Christmas, then I write my way through the BS until I get Oscar standing behind Rudy, who’s peeking over the ledge. If I can’t get there, I may read a book about bridges. Or do some research about the bridge. I’ll learn that that one bridge has seen over 125 suicides in just 20 years. 125! And then maybe I’ll google the names of those people to learn more about them. What was troubling them? What did their families say after the fact? Anything catch my attention that I might use to get me writing? (I wouldn’t recommend going word for word; let your imagination take you wherever it wants to go).
Try not to piss anyone off who’s lost someone. But write. Get it down on paper. If you’re a writer, you’ll be happy to get pen on paper, or your fingers on your laptop’s keys, or some crayon marks on the wall. You’ll have the details to make your story credible. To drop your readers into the world you’ve created because you’ve done the work to be able to write what you know. And if that doesn’t interest you because there’s no promise of riches or movie deals, the Pulitzer committee not calling or Brad Pitt wanting to play Oscar alongside George Clooney’s Rudy, then start writing code. Hit the salad station at Chili’s. Run for local office. But don’t torture yourself doing something you don’t like doing. Don’t be that hamster on that frustrating treadmill. Do what you enjoy doing, because the chances of you being a Stephen King, a John Grisham, a Salman Rushdie, are very, very slim. If you understand that, your writing will benefit from it, because you’re not chasing something that’s likely out of reach. I’m not saying give up on your goals; I’m saying be realistic. Be an educated writer. Or not. It’s up to you.
Cully Perlman is an author, blogger, and Substantive Editor. He can be reached at Cully@novelmasterclass.com if you have a novel and want a hand getting it ready for submitting to literary agents or if you're self-publishing.
I see a lot of writers complaining as well. So many books are published every year that it's basically impossible to get noticed. It can become depressing.