Be Your Own Editor

I’m nearing the end of my 10-week session at Gotham Writers’ Workshop, and it’s been an invaluable experience to learn the importance of feedback, to be prompted to consider such matters as pacing, voice, and description, and to simply be forced to write something every week. At the same time, it has—to be blunt—separated the wheat from the chaff, and the potential from the lack thereof. But that, too, is part of the workshop process. And it’s helped me realize that the lack thereof are pretty cool people, too.

That is not to say, of course, that I can determine which members of my workshop fall into which of the above categories. Or that they know themselves. Ultimately, one hopes, the experience will help push each person to pursue what is right for him or her. Several members of the class have dropped out, which, my instructor tells us, is not exactly uncommon. In fact, this has been the case in every class of every kind that I’ve ever taken. My first instinct is to think, How could they waste all that tuition money? But that’s because I am a copyediting type and, therefore, cheap. That aside, while I’m sure practical matters played a role in some cases, it’s clear that, especially in a creative class such as this, some people simply couldn’t deal with either the pressure to produce or the exposure to blunt feedback.

My guess is that writing talent is plentiful among this crowd, or at least a few of them. But talent and skill don’t always go hand in hand with the dedication and the courage necessary to pursue writing as a career or a vocation. Perhaps it just wasn’t the right time, and one day they’ll sign up for another writing class or workshop and stick it out. Perhaps they never will, and some talent will go to waste.

I’m equally fascinated, and more impressed, by the folks who, if you’ll pardon me, have no chance whatsoever of ever making a living as a writer (at least not the kind of writer they aspire to be) but keep on coming anyway. Stop looking shocked; you all know them. At least you do if you’ve taken a writing class or worked in the publishing business. They can be fifty-year-olds who suddenly have been filled with a desperate need to tell stories about zombie roller-skating waiters. Or a twenty-five-year-old with twenty-five novels under his belt, whose unpublished status has not in the least diminished his confidence in his impending career as a Great Writer.

It’s easy for those of us in the book industry, who’ve worked at publishing houses and agencies and as freelance editors, to become jaded and cultivate ugly attitudes toward writers who aren’t very good. It’s easy to be condescending toward someone who appears only as a name on a query letter. But what happens when that person sits next to you in a writers’ group? Do you say, as you so often wished you could, “Keep your day job?” No, of course not. Because who the hell am I to say that?

Yes, I’m talking in part about taste, of which I am not the final arbiter. But part of our jobs as editors and agents is to be able to look at a piece of writing and know pretty quickly not whether it’s brilliant, but whether it’s worthy of consideration. And the plain truth is, lots of stuff that gets submitted to agents just isn’t good enough to be considered. So I’m not going to spout a load of B.S. and say that “everyone has talent.” Everyone doesn’t. But everyone has the right to do it. And to be admired for trying, because gosh darn it, trying is hard. Whether you’re good or you’re not good or you know it or you don’t, it’s hard to persevere. I’ve never finished a novel, so I look with a certain awe upon anyone who has, whether I like it or not.

My workshop is made up of writers of all levels of skill, creativity, intelligence, and experience. That’s what makes it interesting. And you know what? The people whose writing isn’t the greatest often have the most helpful feedback. One can be a great reader even if one is not a great writer.

What’s my point? That it’s incredibly hard to make a living as a writer. Even for the best of the best. So, while we dream of fame and fortune, we have to do it mainly because we love to or need to or feel we have something to say. And no, those qualities don’t always come with the ability to compose a beautiful sentence. But if someone has those qualities, I’d like help them figure out how to compose that beautiful sentence. Even if they never write one that good again.

For those of you who aren’t sure of your abilities, who think you might be swimming upstream, wasting your time, not good enough: I count myself among you. But I hope to continue to show up for class. And I hope you do, too.

Gotham Writers’ Workshop is currently taking registration for their spring semester. Check out their website if you’re interested in an online workshop or a live one in New York City.

This entry was posted on Monday, March 19th, 2007 at 12:49 am and is filed under Writing Classes and Workshops. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.