Writing

One simple fact is that the moment you become a “professional” writer you will have to deal with edits and revision notes on anything you produce. It doesn’t matter if it’s a freelance piece you got paid $10 to write or a novel that got you a six-digit advance, those edits are coming, and some of those edits are going to infuriate you.

You work with them anyway, of course. The rule of thumb with revisions and edits is pretty simple: You consider them all. You respond and revise with some, you respond and don’t revise to others, but you deal with them all. Because you’re not as smart as you think you are.

Me Write Novel Good

Writing professionally is almost always a collaborative process, unless you’re super famous and successful and can force editors to bow to your will. I am neither of those things, and so I must work with editors in both the fiction and freelance milieu. The irony for me is that one reason writing appeals to me as an artistic expression is the lack of collaboration; I can write an entire novel—nay, a series of novels—without ever discussing them in any way with another human being.

When I want someone to pay me for my writing, that’s when things get sticky, because of course the folks opening the purse strings expect some input and control over what they’re buying. Which I understand, but it still galls you, because the process goes like this

1. Work on novel/freelance project/epic poem about cats for approximately 7,000 years, until it is honed to perfection
2. Show around to Beta Readers or others, deal with contradictory feedback, like when half your betas love the unreliable narrator and half think it’s “been done.”
3. Revise for another 5,000 years.
4. Sell it! And promptly receive a 700-page edit letter detailing that your new editor loved your work so much they want you to re-write 50% of it.

It can be depressing. But the secret is, you don’t have to do all the requested changes. You just have to take them seriously. Responding with a thoughtful reason why you’re not going to delete the character based on the Great Gazoo is all that’s necessary. What you shouldn’t do is sulk and refuse to respond. Because the other thing I know is that no matter how painful the editing process has been on either fiction or freelance, in the end my work has been better for it.

The Too Long, Didn’t Read version: Suck it up, Silky Boy, and do your revs.

Villains are fun. Every story needs an antagonist, but not every antagonist qualifies as a villain, of course; villainy requires a certain amount of malice aforethought and purposeful evil. Simply resisting the desires of the protagonist doesn’t make you evil, after all.

Villains are fun, especially in a sci-fi or fantasy setting, because you can go all 1966 Batman on them and give them wonderful costumes, gadgets, powers, and evil genius. The same goes for monsters, which aren’t always villains and aren’t always your antagonist—but they’re just as fun. It’s great to make them scary, to imply apocalyptic doom walks behind them.

The problem then is that urge we all have to explain our villains and monsters. To give them backstory and psychological underpinning, to explore potential sympathy your readers might have for them. And while this can yield rich literary fruit, it also opens you up to Villain Decay.

The Slipper Slope

Villain Decay is when you overexpose your Big Bad and thus reduce their effectiveness. Put simply, the more we know about your villain or monster, the less effective they are. In horror movies the best monsters are the ones we only catch glimpses of. Hannibal Lecter was a much better villain before endless sequels gave him all kinds of history and justification for his cannibalistic psychosis.

The more you know, the less interesting they are.

In the recent films Guardians of the Galaxy, the character of Nebula played by Karen Gillan isn’t a major character or villain, but you can see Villain Decay in full effect. In the first film, she was a psychotic, merciless enemy. In the second, she suddenly pines for her sister, and shows far too many flashes of humanity to be a real villain. Part of it is the urge to put conflicting characters together in order to see the sparks fly; the problem is that once you have your villain team up with your heroes for mutual goals, you can never go back. You’ve reduced your villain and they will never be as scary again.

This isn’t a rule or anything, just something to think about. Villain Decay isn’t inevitable, but if you’re thinking of humanizing or deepening the back story of your villain, you should be prepared for the fall out—and be prepared to find a new villain.

Language can be pretty simple stuff, as when you ask someone what they do and they respond “lawyer” or “carpenter” or “rodeo clown.” But language can also be complicated stuff, like when someone asks me what I do and I say “writer” and they cock their head like a bewildered puppy and very clearly wonder what that means, exactly.

The occupation of “writer” is as much a lifestyle affiliation as a profession, sometimes; people just like to call themselves writers because of the implied intellectual and artistic acumen. What’s the qualification, though? When do you get to call yourself a writer? Obviously, when you write something. Whether it’s a haiku or short story or a 1,000,000-word novel about tiny superintelligent kittens in top hats who spend their time being exceedingly polite to each other in exponentially increasingly complicated ways, the moment you have begun and finished a written thing you, sir or madam, are a writer.

Unless you don’t let anyone read your stuff. Then you’re some sort of Schrödinger’s Writer.

Show Us the Words

We all know that so-called writer, the one who shows up for the writing meetups, talks endlessly about their novel, and describes themselves as a writer—but never allows anyone to read anything, much less tries to publish it. That’s their prerogative, of course; there are any number of reasons why you might not want to share your work. But if you don’t share your work, what’s the point? If you write a novel and nobody reads it, does it actually exist?

In a sense, no, it doesn’t. I’ve never understood not showing work around, or trying to sell it, or, hell, giving it away if you can’t find a buyer. If you don’t let anyone read it, then it dies with you, and in a sense never existed in the first place.

I don’t care if you make money from it. I don’t care if you sell a million books or you manage to give away three copies. For me, the only way to be a writer is to allow people the chance to read your work. Otherwise you’re something else entirely.

This topic was suggested by Jon Gawne.

There’s a prevalent theory among some folks that typos—those tiny mistakes you make while typing your genius fictions or your skillful cover letters and queries—are dealbreakers, in the sense that any self-respecting agent or publisher will immediately direct your work to the trash if they note a single instance. The general idea being that a level of superhuman competence is required if you want to be a writer.

This is not true. I know it’s not true because I am one of the least competent people in the world, and my work tends to be riddled with mistakes and typos.

The Riddler (See What I Did There)

The first novel I technically sold (though there was no money and it never actually published, but contracts were signed) was sent out lacking a half dozen pages, and yet still managed to gain someone’s interest. Even today, when I am a Titan of the literary world, my agent mocks me on a regular basis for the typos in my manuscripts, letters, emails, and social media. And yet it hasn’t slowed me down a bit, because there are these wonderful people called Copy Editors. And yes, you need one.

What it boils down to is simple: You as the writer don’t need to be perfect. You need to have a manuscript and communications that don’t look like a drunk illiterate wrote them—but they don’t have to be perfect. Using “its” when you mean “it’s” once in a 500-page manuscript isn’t going to disqualify you. Heck, having dozens of typos won’t disqualify you, as long as they’re clearly oversights and not representative of a writer whose language skills are theoretical at best.

The Humorless

Will you possibly run into an editor, agent, or other literary personage who will reject you for a typo? Sure, and fuck ?em. While everyone has a right to run their shop along any standards they wish—and while I will stipulate that there’s a difference between the occasional typo and a manuscript that’s obviously not worth reading because of the lack of care or understanding involved in its writing—if you’re going to reject my work because of a misplaced comma, or a misspelled word, or that time I passed out while revising and didn’t notice I’d pasted in 6,000 words of a non-fiction article I was working on, then I probably don’t want to work with you anyway. Because I will have typos, and make mistakes, and accidentally send you a version of the story that’s 3 years old.

I want partners. Publishing a novel or a short story isn’t like accepting a minimum-wage job or something, it’s a collaboration. Part of that is copy-editing and proofreading to clean up my rough edges, and I want to work with people who have a sense of humor—and perspective.