Six days out of seven, I install myself in my easy
chair with Adele, the laptop, and I whittle away at the remaining stamina in my
wrists. From the way I jealously guard this time, you would think I’m in love.
And to an extent, that’s true. But if you’ve followed my blog for more than a
week, you probably know that storytelling isn’t all larks and roses. Unlike
many writers, I do not enjoy the drafting process, the spitting of raw ideas
onto paper. It’s when I get to untangling the jumbled mess that the fun starts.
Delving into the unknown with no guide and no clue as to what should happen
next is stressful. I’m not a visionary novelist who works with fifty pages of
outline and ninety pages of notes. Sometimes I wish I were, but it’s more
helpful to accept my limitations.
As for anxiety, that doesn’t mean I sit down at the
computer and freak out. Granted, I could tell myself that the book I finished was
a fluke and that I shouldn’t expect to do it again. Yet I don’t. In fact, I do
expect myself to succeed, not because I think I’m brilliant or special or
perfect, but because I know that the first book came into existence through
hard work. No one sprinkled fairy dust over my computer; no one handed me the
words. I had to chase down each and every one, even when it felt like banging
my head against the wall for 389 hours would accomplish more in the end. Also,
I’m stubborn, and I’m too proud to quit, which I’ve found can be the best
motivation of all. No one is going to say that Manuscript Mountain conquered
me. OH NO.
The problem with this confidence, though, is that it
can very quickly lead to snobbery. Let me be honest with you; I struggle with
that a lot more than I’d like to admit. It’s not wrong to be self-assured—in fact,
it’s helpful—but it means walking a very fine line. Unfortunately, just like
insecurity, arrogance is the enemy—the product and killer—of success. Sometimes
I go through stages where I genuinely believe I am the best at what I do, so I
criticize other writers and find fault with published novels and console myself
that I would never make the same
mistakes. Worse than that, I start to base my worth as a person on my
assessment of my skill. On how well I’m liked. On how many people read my blog.
As if Out of Coffee, Out of Mind is hugely
important in the grand scheme of things. I promise I won’t stop blogging anytime
soon (unless I die or the Doctor takes me away in the TARDIS), but I need to accept
that if I were to go silent, life would continue without me. Maybe some readers
would miss my voice. If so, I’m flattered. But whatever the case—you can be
sure—the gap left in my wake would soon be filled by someone else.
If I base my happiness on something as fickle as
success, then I am guaranteed to be disappointed. Guaranteed. In my own eyes, I
will always be a failure. And I will forget why I started writing in the first
place, why I fell in love with the craft, why I finish rough drafts despite
their overwhelming flaws.
But there’s another aspect of arrogance that cripples.
If I convince myself that I am perfect, then I will fail to see the ways in
which I desperately need to improve. (This goes for normal life as well.) And I
want to be gentle when I say this, because I know some of my readers are young
writers, and I enjoy watching you gush about your projects. So let me be the
first to say that excitement is by no means wrong, and I would never go back
and tell my previous selves that they were mistaken to be thrilled with words.
But have you ever met a proud parent who seems to see their child in a totally
different light than anyone else? They coo about Charlie the angel even while
little Charlie is lighting someone’s hair on fire. Fantasy and actuality lock in hideous combat.
It’s the same with writing. If I’m too enamored with my darling manuscript and
too blind to its nasty habits, I will never have the necessary wherewithal to
whip out the axe and the scalpel and go crazy. I will never accept when my
characters are faulty, inconsistent, unreal, or out of place. Blinded by my
precious, preconceived notions, I will miss what is actually on the page.
That’s not to say I don’t connect emotionally with my novels
at all. But the most important bit I have learned over the years (aside from
patience) is the ability to let go. When a story idea just isn’t as brilliant
as you had hoped—even after you’ve given it an honest shot—let it go. When the
scene you loved isn’t adding anything to the plot, let it go. When your dream
agent rejects you (albeit very nicely) spam her (I meant to say, let it go).
Eight days out of ten, I meet resistance. I feel dull,
like my brain moved to Romania and left a decoy in its place. The music hurts
my ears, but I need the music to concentrate. The laptop is too hot. The words
won’t come. The literary agent has had my full manuscript for almost four
months, and it seems like no one will ever get back to me. But that’s the rub.
While a job can be pleasurable, it’s called work for a reason. As in
relationships, you make a commitment to persist even when it isn’t fun anymore,
even when it’s painful to fight against entropy, even when it’s easier to cut
your losses and quit. When I was young, I had a choice. I could resist the
editorial comments that said my writing lacked clarity and direction (it did),
or my male characters were too much like old ladies (they were), or my driving
forces weren’t evident (they weren’t). I could reason away really good advice
and listen instead to the voice that I much preferred, the voice of my inner
writer that said my critics weren’t as talented as I, that it wasn’t my fault
they couldn’t understand the vision I had for my story. But now that I’m older,
and especially now that I have the very definite goal of publication in mind, I
do not have that luxury. If I want to improve—and I must—I cannot afford to
rest on my laurels and spend my royalties before they’re earned. In fact, I
have no business thinking of myself as anyone other than someone who is trying
her hardest to do her best, nothing more.
So I’ve been working to cultivate a teachable mindset
rather than a passive or stubborn one. (I just made that sound as easy as
eating ice cream. Believe me, it’s not.) Of course, I will still recoil when I
receive criticism, and I will always battle the urge to blame the reader, but
in order to succeed, I need to recognize my faults and my limitations. Because
I guarantee that I will never go far if I cannot take honest, unvarnished,
painful opinions. In the meantime, it’s hard to fight arrogance in a job where
you’re constantly expected to stand up for your own talents, where it seems you
have to force people to take you seriously. Believe me, I get that.
But unfortunately, superiority complexes do not buy bread.
