By Beth Terrell
The topic du jour at work of late has been the Olympics. We’ve seen story after story about these athletes—the greatest in the world—and the sacrifices they’ve made to get to the winter games in Vancouver. We saw a pairs skater go onto the ice with torn tendons in one ankle; she skated beautifully, and no one watching could have guessed she was in terrible pain. We saw a speed skater with metal pins holding the bones of his forearm together. We saw a downhill skier who, after a debilitating accident, competed in her sport of choice three weeks after doctors told her it would be months before she could even begin to walk. We saw a skater perform on the day of her mother’s death, and we saw the team from Georgia carry on after the tragic loss of one of their teammates on the first day of the games. No doubt about it, these young men and women have a special kind of courage—the kind we often call Heart.
I don’t know about you, but I don’t think I have what it takes to hobble out into the snow with a sprained ankle, put on a pair of skis, and pitch myself down the side of a mountain. Thankfully, as a writer, I don’t have to. But I think writing requires its own brand of Heart.
Like Olympic athletes, writers spend thousands of hours honing our craft. I’ve read that you have to write a million words before you become a master of your art. That means showing up at the computer (or paper, or typewriter), whether we feel like it or not, whether inspiration strikes or not. Day after day, word after word, one sentence after another.
Like Olympic athletes, writers “put themselves out there.” There’s no place to hide when you’re the only one on the ice, or the only one on the ski slope, and there’s no place to hide when your name is on a book that can be picked up and read by potentially thousands of readers. Olympic athletes have to deal with judges and timers. Writers have to deal with critics and reviewers. Olympic athletes give a hundred percent to every competition. Writers give a hundred percent to every book. We put our hearts on the page for the world to see.
Olympic athletes never give up. In the face of injuries, poor performances, broken equipment, and discouraging words from others, they persevere. Writers persevere as well. Today, I read an article about a writer with an impressive number of published short stories—and 11,000 rejections. Can you imagine how hard it must be to keep writing and submitting after 11,000 rejections? Now, that takes Heart.
No, I don’t have what it takes to be an Olympic athlete, but I hope I have—or at least can cultivate—that special kind of courage it takes to be a writer. I hope I have a writer’s Heart.
Showing posts with label published. Show all posts
Showing posts with label published. Show all posts
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Pre-Published?
By Beth Terrell
Today, I came across not one, but two different blogs complaining about the use of the term pre-published to refer to writers with no published works. It seems a number of aspiring writers are referring to themselves as pre-published and that a number of published authors are taking offense at the practice.
One commenter compared pre-published to pre-med and pre-law, but that the latter two were valid terms because they implied a specific course of study and an implication that the pre-med/pre-law student was expressing a serious intent to attend medical/law school. Thus, even if he or she never actually entered the medical/legal profession, the student had fulfilled the promise of the "pre" label by entering the medical or law program. However, there is no specific course of study for the aspiring author. With no program to enter, the only way to fulfill the promise of the label would be to actually BE published. Since there is no guarantee that the writer in question has what it takes to become published (the argument goes), claiming to be pre-published is akin to claiming to be pre-rich, pre-thin, or a pre-Nobel-Prize-winner. (Hmm. I wouldn't mind being pre-rich or pre-thin, either.) Apparently, a lot of people think anyone who would describe himself or herself as pre-published is: arrogant, delusional, full of false hope, pathetic, or all of the above. Unpublished writers, they say, should just call themselves what they are: unpublished.
But when I first started hearing the term, it was being used by published authors to described other writers who hadn't (or hadn't yet) signed publishing contracts. Some were in the query process, and others had never completed so much as a short story, but all dreamed of one day becoming professional authors. The published authors who used the term weren't trying to be cute or coy. They used the "pre-published" as a sort of "attaboy," or "hang in there" or "You'll make it, just don't give up." The term was inclusive. It was created as a kindness.
"Pre-published" sounds like hope. "Unpublished," on the other hand, is reminiscent of all those other "un" words: unloved, unwanted, unfortunate, unworthy. Nobody wants to be an "un."
To me, a writer who says "I am pre-published" IS expressing a serious intent. He (or she) is saying , "I will do whatever it takes to raise the quality of my writing to a publishable level, and then I will do what is necessary to find a publisher and an audience for that work." Does every writer who calls himself or herself pre-published go on to be published? Of course not, just as not every pre-law student goes to law school.
But I say, what's the harm? In this difficult profession, the "pre-published" label gives some aspiring writers a little hope. I don't know about you, but to me, that doesn't sound like a bad thing.
Today, I came across not one, but two different blogs complaining about the use of the term pre-published to refer to writers with no published works. It seems a number of aspiring writers are referring to themselves as pre-published and that a number of published authors are taking offense at the practice.
One commenter compared pre-published to pre-med and pre-law, but that the latter two were valid terms because they implied a specific course of study and an implication that the pre-med/pre-law student was expressing a serious intent to attend medical/law school. Thus, even if he or she never actually entered the medical/legal profession, the student had fulfilled the promise of the "pre" label by entering the medical or law program. However, there is no specific course of study for the aspiring author. With no program to enter, the only way to fulfill the promise of the label would be to actually BE published. Since there is no guarantee that the writer in question has what it takes to become published (the argument goes), claiming to be pre-published is akin to claiming to be pre-rich, pre-thin, or a pre-Nobel-Prize-winner. (Hmm. I wouldn't mind being pre-rich or pre-thin, either.) Apparently, a lot of people think anyone who would describe himself or herself as pre-published is: arrogant, delusional, full of false hope, pathetic, or all of the above. Unpublished writers, they say, should just call themselves what they are: unpublished.
But when I first started hearing the term, it was being used by published authors to described other writers who hadn't (or hadn't yet) signed publishing contracts. Some were in the query process, and others had never completed so much as a short story, but all dreamed of one day becoming professional authors. The published authors who used the term weren't trying to be cute or coy. They used the "pre-published" as a sort of "attaboy," or "hang in there" or "You'll make it, just don't give up." The term was inclusive. It was created as a kindness.
"Pre-published" sounds like hope. "Unpublished," on the other hand, is reminiscent of all those other "un" words: unloved, unwanted, unfortunate, unworthy. Nobody wants to be an "un."
To me, a writer who says "I am pre-published" IS expressing a serious intent. He (or she) is saying , "I will do whatever it takes to raise the quality of my writing to a publishable level, and then I will do what is necessary to find a publisher and an audience for that work." Does every writer who calls himself or herself pre-published go on to be published? Of course not, just as not every pre-law student goes to law school.
But I say, what's the harm? In this difficult profession, the "pre-published" label gives some aspiring writers a little hope. I don't know about you, but to me, that doesn't sound like a bad thing.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
The Infallible Seer
By Beth Terrell
Top agent Nathan Bransford has a blog on which he occasionally asks such thought-provoking questions as, "What is your least favorite word?" and "What's the hardest part about being a writer?" Yesterday's question was, "Do you think you're a better writer than the average reader of this blog?" Talk about a loaded question!
The one that had me stewing went something like this: Imagine there is a seer. His predictions are always right. He can tell you with 100% accuracy whether or not you have the talent to be a published author, and if he said no, that was that. Would you want to know? (For the sake of fairness, I'm interpreting the question in its strictest sense: that if he says no, it means that, not only do I not possess the talent now, but I will never have it.) And if the answer was no, would you keep writing?
Notice it doesn't say he knows whether you will be published. It says he knows whether you have the talent to be published. He isn't just making a prediction; he's telling you your worth as a writer.
I've gone back and forth on this question a hundred times. If I were to become a successful author, with tons of adoring fans, I think I'd take that as an affirmation of my talent and forget about the seer. But if I weren't...Well, that's a different story, isn't it? To know, or not to know. That is the question.
I've always told myself that I would always write, no matter what. I love writing: creating new stories, falling in love with a character, exploring that character's relationships and history. There's nothing like it. My success as an author (or the lack of it) would have no effect at all on whether or not I continued to write.
But if the Infallible Seer told me I was a talentless hack, a lot of the joy I take in writing would shrivel up and blow away. Part of what I love about writing is believing that, whether anyone else ever reads my work or not, I'm good at it--or at least, that I can learn to be.
So, after much soul-searching, I've made my choice. I would choose not to know. Let the Infallible Seer destroy someone else's dream, if he can.
For my part, I'll keep learning, keep trying, and keep writing.
What would you do?
Top agent Nathan Bransford has a blog on which he occasionally asks such thought-provoking questions as, "What is your least favorite word?" and "What's the hardest part about being a writer?" Yesterday's question was, "Do you think you're a better writer than the average reader of this blog?" Talk about a loaded question!
The one that had me stewing went something like this: Imagine there is a seer. His predictions are always right. He can tell you with 100% accuracy whether or not you have the talent to be a published author, and if he said no, that was that. Would you want to know? (For the sake of fairness, I'm interpreting the question in its strictest sense: that if he says no, it means that, not only do I not possess the talent now, but I will never have it.) And if the answer was no, would you keep writing?
Notice it doesn't say he knows whether you will be published. It says he knows whether you have the talent to be published. He isn't just making a prediction; he's telling you your worth as a writer.
I've gone back and forth on this question a hundred times. If I were to become a successful author, with tons of adoring fans, I think I'd take that as an affirmation of my talent and forget about the seer. But if I weren't...Well, that's a different story, isn't it? To know, or not to know. That is the question.
I've always told myself that I would always write, no matter what. I love writing: creating new stories, falling in love with a character, exploring that character's relationships and history. There's nothing like it. My success as an author (or the lack of it) would have no effect at all on whether or not I continued to write.
But if the Infallible Seer told me I was a talentless hack, a lot of the joy I take in writing would shrivel up and blow away. Part of what I love about writing is believing that, whether anyone else ever reads my work or not, I'm good at it--or at least, that I can learn to be.
So, after much soul-searching, I've made my choice. I would choose not to know. Let the Infallible Seer destroy someone else's dream, if he can.
For my part, I'll keep learning, keep trying, and keep writing.
What would you do?
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Why Write?
By Beth Terrell
A few years ago, I went to a small conference in North Carolina. In the drawing room of a lovely old hotel, several authors spoke about the process and business of writing. I talked about editing and the multiple drafts it takes to get a book to the polished level professional authors strive to achieve. (Granted, a privileged few get it perfect the first time, every time, but they are mutant geniuses who must be destroyed...um...of course, I mean "honored.")
Anyway, I spoke about editing and gave out a handout with a number of steps toward, one hopes, scintillating writing. Then another talked about the process of finding an agent or publisher and getting your book accepted. Still another spoke on marketing and what it takes to make a living as a novelist.
One woman in the audience finally raised her hand, and said in a voice of quiet desperation, "But what if I don't want to do all that? What if I just want to write?"
At another conference, a would-be novelist said to me, "Our critique leader said I needed to read a lot if I want to write. But I hate to read. Do you think she's right?" Over the years, I've heard multiple variations on this theme. I love to write, but it seems so hard. Do I really have to do all this?
My answer is always, "It depends on what you want from your writing."
Yes, if you want to be successfully published, you have to read, you have to write, you have to edit and polish and edit again. You have to pursue a writing contract (or publish your book on your own), and once the book is out there, you have to market the heck out of it. It's a lot of work, and if you want to be the next Dennis Lehane or Janet Evanovitch, you have to make a real commitment to do it. Jim Rollins was accepted by the fiftieth agent he submitted to. J.K. Rowling submitted the first Harry Potter novel over 100 times. If your goal is to be a professional writer, you must do what it takes to make your work as good as it can be, and then never give up.
But if what you want is to put ideas down on paper for your own enjoyment, for catharsis, or so your children and grandchildren will someday read your words and know who you are, then all you have to do is put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard and let fly. Writing is fun, and it's for everybody. There's no sign on the door that says "AMATEURS KEEP OUT."
That word, amateur, is sometimes used in a pejorative way, but it is not a pejorative term. My dictionary defines "amateur" as "a person who engages in a study, sport, or other activity for for pleasure rather than for financial benefit or professional reasons." That sounds like a great reason for writing--or doing any other form of art, for that matter. Oil painting, for example. I suspect there are millions of amateur painters out there, some of whom paint well, some of whom paint poorly, some of whom create exquisite works of art, but all of whom paint only for themselves or a few friends. No one thinks they should give up painting just because their work will never hang in a museum. The process of painting brings them joy, and that's enough.
But with writing, for some reason, there's a sense that, if you aren't writing for publication, you might as well hang up your laptop. Want proof? Every year, thousands of people join in a joyful frenzy of writing called NaNoWriMo (National Novel-Writing Month), in which the goal is to write a 50,000-word novel in a month. And every year, like clockwork, the "I-Hate-NaNoWriMo" blogs spring up like mushrooms. "These people have no business writing," they say. And, "The flood of horrible books makes it harder for us real writers to get published."
You never read rants by fine artists about how the millions of people for whom painting is a hobby are screwing it up for the real artists. So why do some writers think putting words on a page is the sole purview of the professionals?
There are a million reasons to write: creating characters that come to life on the page, building a world that once only existed in your mind, setting down a history of family stories that will otherwise be lost, getting an email that says, "I was reading snatches of your book at stoplights; I couldn't put it down." Of course, we mustn't forget the accolades and the six million dollar movie deal.
Me, I want the whole shebang--to be a full-time, published author, making a living doing the thing I love the most. The woman in my North Carolina audience wanted something different, and that's okay too.
That's the great thing about writing. Amateur or professional, we are richer for having done it.
A few years ago, I went to a small conference in North Carolina. In the drawing room of a lovely old hotel, several authors spoke about the process and business of writing. I talked about editing and the multiple drafts it takes to get a book to the polished level professional authors strive to achieve. (Granted, a privileged few get it perfect the first time, every time, but they are mutant geniuses who must be destroyed...um...of course, I mean "honored.")
Anyway, I spoke about editing and gave out a handout with a number of steps toward, one hopes, scintillating writing. Then another talked about the process of finding an agent or publisher and getting your book accepted. Still another spoke on marketing and what it takes to make a living as a novelist.
One woman in the audience finally raised her hand, and said in a voice of quiet desperation, "But what if I don't want to do all that? What if I just want to write?"
At another conference, a would-be novelist said to me, "Our critique leader said I needed to read a lot if I want to write. But I hate to read. Do you think she's right?" Over the years, I've heard multiple variations on this theme. I love to write, but it seems so hard. Do I really have to do all this?
My answer is always, "It depends on what you want from your writing."
Yes, if you want to be successfully published, you have to read, you have to write, you have to edit and polish and edit again. You have to pursue a writing contract (or publish your book on your own), and once the book is out there, you have to market the heck out of it. It's a lot of work, and if you want to be the next Dennis Lehane or Janet Evanovitch, you have to make a real commitment to do it. Jim Rollins was accepted by the fiftieth agent he submitted to. J.K. Rowling submitted the first Harry Potter novel over 100 times. If your goal is to be a professional writer, you must do what it takes to make your work as good as it can be, and then never give up.
But if what you want is to put ideas down on paper for your own enjoyment, for catharsis, or so your children and grandchildren will someday read your words and know who you are, then all you have to do is put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard and let fly. Writing is fun, and it's for everybody. There's no sign on the door that says "AMATEURS KEEP OUT."
That word, amateur, is sometimes used in a pejorative way, but it is not a pejorative term. My dictionary defines "amateur" as "a person who engages in a study, sport, or other activity for for pleasure rather than for financial benefit or professional reasons." That sounds like a great reason for writing--or doing any other form of art, for that matter. Oil painting, for example. I suspect there are millions of amateur painters out there, some of whom paint well, some of whom paint poorly, some of whom create exquisite works of art, but all of whom paint only for themselves or a few friends. No one thinks they should give up painting just because their work will never hang in a museum. The process of painting brings them joy, and that's enough.
But with writing, for some reason, there's a sense that, if you aren't writing for publication, you might as well hang up your laptop. Want proof? Every year, thousands of people join in a joyful frenzy of writing called NaNoWriMo (National Novel-Writing Month), in which the goal is to write a 50,000-word novel in a month. And every year, like clockwork, the "I-Hate-NaNoWriMo" blogs spring up like mushrooms. "These people have no business writing," they say. And, "The flood of horrible books makes it harder for us real writers to get published."
You never read rants by fine artists about how the millions of people for whom painting is a hobby are screwing it up for the real artists. So why do some writers think putting words on a page is the sole purview of the professionals?
There are a million reasons to write: creating characters that come to life on the page, building a world that once only existed in your mind, setting down a history of family stories that will otherwise be lost, getting an email that says, "I was reading snatches of your book at stoplights; I couldn't put it down." Of course, we mustn't forget the accolades and the six million dollar movie deal.
Me, I want the whole shebang--to be a full-time, published author, making a living doing the thing I love the most. The woman in my North Carolina audience wanted something different, and that's okay too.
That's the great thing about writing. Amateur or professional, we are richer for having done it.
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