“But in order to exist in any form, art must be giving
pleasure.” – W.H. Auden,
"Being a professional means doing the things you love to do, on the days you don't feel like doing them." -- Julius Erving
I have been writing for money since 1981. How am I doing?
You tell me.
My writing career took off in fits and starts, with plenty
of detours, dead ends, and nonsensical tangents, personal and professional. At
this point, I’ve written three books, published two of them (busy selling Number
Three as we speak), and composed thousands of essays, articles, and stories. I’m
a non-fiction writer, although I have recently been tempted to make something
up, a challenge about which I am exceedingly nervous.
Over the course of 45 years, I have learned a few things. These
are some of the things that get me through the day – and I take it day to day.
1. Building
a chair
You can’t think of it as “art”. That’s too intimidating. Usually
your work is considered art only after you’re dead, and sometimes not even
then. Instead, think of yourself as a craftsperson. When you write something, you
are building the equivalent of a chair. (The metaphor’s not mine, I stole it
from Gabriel Garcia Marquez.) The first thing you have to make sure of – is it
functional? Does it do what it is meant to do? Does it hold up or does it fold up? Can it sustain your weight? Is
it durable? Is it comfortable? That is the baseline of acceptability. Beyond
that, you can speculate. You can make it anything. Are you building a throne? A
milking stool? It’s up to you.
2. Find
your style by telling the truth
When I was just starting out, I was obsessed with the idea
of my style. What was it? How could I find it? I began by imitating writers I
admired. First, I copied Raymond Chandler, reveling in his terseness, his
absurd, over-the-top similes, his hard-bitten outlook. The result was awful. I
moved on to other influences – John Steinbeck, most prominently. Again, I found
myself butting my head against a wall. I did not know what I was doing.
Then I starting working as a journalist. This was an
invaluable experience for me because it taught me discipline. (I believe Hemingway
said everyone should be a journalist, but only for five years!) For in
journalism, there is always a deadline, usually one about four hours away. It
forced me to talk to multiple people, gather information, think of how to
present it, execute it, and send it out for the world to read in that
abbreviated time frame. If it sucked, it sucked. I made many, many, many
mistakes – fortunately, I wasn’t working for the New York Times, so my failures
were small ones and nobody got hurt.
I got through the job by focusing on simple clarity. Tell
the story as simply and honestly as you can. Make it understandable. This does
not mean writing down to people. Respect the reader, but do so by being
clear and straight with him or her. It helps to keep an “ideal reader” on your
mind. Write for that person.
What do I really feel, think, taste, touch, smell, see,
hear? How do I process that? This is difficult. This is what cannot be faked. That
is where your truth is, and your true voice.
When I moved on to bigger projects, I found that there was a
way I had of writing that sounded distinctly like me – informal, kinda jokey, friendly.
That was my style. Through sheer repetition, I removed all the parts of my
writing that got in the way between me and the reader. In simply communicating
effectively, I have established a mode of expression that is uniquely mine.
Now, am I happy with my style? I read other writers, and am
jealous of their eloquence and perception, their seemingly effortless ease. But this is the voice I was born
with, the limitations I have to deal with, and now when I reread myself, I say,
“That’s OK. That sounds like me.” I just do my best.
3. Repetition
There is no such thing as inspiration. Malcom Gladwell’s “10,000 hour” rule, which states that that
much practice is required to endow someone with mastery of a subject, is right
on point. The only way to get better as a writer is to write. Not take classes,
not look for magic formulae. When I was in college, I attended an interview
with the playwright Edward Albee. “Who here wants to be a writer?” he asked. Hands
shot up. “Why aren’t you writing, then? Get out of here,” he said.
I work at it every day, six days a week. On average, I can
produce about 1,000 usable words a day. Everyone has a different production
capacity; as you go along, you will find out what yours is. On good days, my
output creeps up to 1,500 to 2,000 per shift. On lousy days, I still manage to crank
out a few hundred words. Keeping at it is essential. The comedian George Carlin
had a time clock at his desk at home, and he punched in and out every day, just
like a factory worker. He sat there and ground it out. You have to, too. If you
can’t do that, don’t try. You’ll just make yourself crazy.
Being a writer is much like being an old-time prospector.
You head off into the wilderness, looking for a likely spot. You dig and dig,
and sift and sift. You live on bacon and beans, and wear worn-out, patched-up
clothes. Sometimes you strike gold. Most of the time, you get enough of a
return to show a little profit that grubstakes you for your next attempt.
Someone smart whose name I can't remember said writing a book is like filling a swimming pool using a teacup. It requires patience. Do you like being alone with your thoughts for long periods
of time, every day? Are you undaunted by the prospect of sitting there patiently,
pulling words out of yourself like teeth? Congratulations, you may be a writer.
4. Rewrite
The first draft is always terrible. I hate first drafts. The
blank page still makes me sweat. What gets me through, what allows me to write
ANYTHING down, is the knowledge that I can fix it later. The first draft is
just a mess of words that fight toward your goal of being understood. The first
draft is filled with wrong directions, mistakes, and vile stupidities. Get over
it. I LOVE rewriting. Once I have something down, I can shape it into something
usable. When you are starting out, it seems impossible to wrestle something
into an acceptable form. Once again, keep at it. Rewrite, rewrite, rewrite. The
more you do it, the better you will get at it.
5. Read
Throw away your video games. Life is too short. Read, read,
read! Keep reading. I read fiction and non-fiction, poetry, plays, the back of
the cereal box. I read deathless prose and complete shit. I love it all. There
is no way you will get to read one-tenth of what you want to read in this life –
but you can die trying. Don’t try to cheat by reading only what tops the
best-seller lists. You will not discover the magic trick that will make you a
great writer. In fact, most people who are good writers were stimulated by
reading something so bad that they declared to themselves, “I can write
something better than this crap!”
6. Do
what you can do
You have to live somehow. You have to take that day job. You
have a life, people you love, obligations, hindrances. You have to write in the
cracks of your working day, early in the morning, late at night. The conditions
are never ideal (again, writing in the middle of a loud, busy, newsroom filled
with constant interruptions on four things at a time is excellent practice). You
have to forgive yourself for not getting as far in a day as you wanted. I have
few readily marketable skills. I didn’t get a degree. I have raised three
children, been married twice (the second one worked!), held every kind of
menial job there is. I waited tables for seven years. And I kept writing.
I continue to scrape along. It’s in my blood now, I can’t
help myself. When I don’t get to write, I moo like a distressed cow with
overfilled udders. I do OK.
The writer typically swings between complete self-loathing
and delusions of grandeur. The truth is somewhere in the middle. Don’t aspire
to “be a writer”; aspire to write. It’s fun!
