When I started to take the idea of writing seriously, I just wrote and wrote, and then wrote some more. I didn’t have a thought beyond the writing process. My logic was simple: I would write a book; people would read this book; I would deal with their response, for better or for worse. Logically, I would have to produce a book first, and until I did that, nothing else mattered. I would worry about publishing when it became a relevant issue. I was alone with my typewriter (okay, keyboard, but typewriter sounds much more romantic). The reader did not exist. I didn’t care what anyone else wanted. Again, I was backed by sound logic: I want to write what I want and don’t give me orders like I’m a short-order cook.
Time wore on. I worked on my book. Half my brain fantasized about how brilliant I was and how amazing it would be when I finished. Amid all this fantasizing, the other half of my brain knew I didn’t have nearly enough skill to turn out a novel. Something was very wrong about the whole project – I didn’t have a word for it – I felt it in my gut. I started to think about failure and then I realized what I was dreading: audience response. It was funny in a way, I had so casually eliminated the audience from the equation, but here I was dreading how my imaginary audience would respond to the book I hadn’t finished writing. I started wondering whether my core logic was right. Sure, write I want, don’t give me orders, blah blah blah… And then I asked myself, “Who’s going to read this, anyway?”
Yeah, I know it sounds trivial, but it really never occurred to me. I didn’t consider that readers weren’t some abstract concept, but actual living people with minds and lives of their own. My perspective shifted; I did a little test-run in my head. Mom? Of course she’d read and she’d be proud of me for the sheer endeavor. Friends? One wouldn’t like the genre I was writing, so maybe she’d humor me, but I wouldn’t get more than that. Another was a voracious reader who would hold me to the standard of her favorite writers. But what about everybody else? I became flooded with panic. There were millions of people I couldn’t account for, that I knew nothing about.
A moment later I realized that I had just gone to the other extreme. My core logic, after all, while not totally right, was not totally wrong either – I shouldn’t ignore the readers, but I shouldn’t allow them to dictate either. I wasn’t writing for money, though I didn’t (and still don’t) find the idea of commercial success distasteful. I wasn’t writing purely for my own enjoyment, I really did want other people to enjoy my writing as well. Again, I’m sure this sounds entirely obvious and utterly idiotic, but I had never thought of it that way before. I know that was a long introduction, but I think it helps clarify how I reached the following conclusions:
You are writing for someone. Writing is a lot like having a conversation. Essentially, you’re expressing yourself, which means you’re expecting your words to make some kind of impression on the person you’re speaking to. Just like you would alter what you’d say and how you’d say it depending on who you were talking to, you’ll have to make certain decisions about your writing according to who you’re writing for. I’m not saying take a poll or a survey to see what people want (I meant what I said about not being a short-order cook). It brings me to the next point.
Someone is not everyone. You can't please everyone. Some people will "get" your writing, others won't. There's no need to lose sleep over it.
Someone is not stupid. You don’t have to explain every little thing. I think it’s Billy Wilder who said that you should let your audience think for themselves, that you don’t have to spell things out for them. In fact, most of the enjoyment can come from hearing other people’s interpretations and reactions. That having been said…
Someone is not clairvoyant. There is a difference between giving people room to interpret and being vague. Likewise, something may resonate one way with you, but resonate differently with someone else. Sometimes you need to give additional information in order for whatever it is you’re writing to come across the way you want it to.
I guess you had to be there. We (yes, I know this sounds crass) fall in love with the writing process and its challenges. We become so immersed in the creation that we often lose sight of the finished product, forgetting that this is all a reader has to go by in the end. They didn’t see you working. They don’t know what you put into it, they can only assume. It’s kind of like building a house or skyscraper and expecting someone to look at it and go, “Ooh, what a lovely infrastructure you have holding this together! And I’m sure the plumbing is just peachy!”
And that’s it, in a nutshell. Well, okay, more like a coconut shell.
Next time on Technical Saturday… Narrators and Point-of-View.
Time wore on. I worked on my book. Half my brain fantasized about how brilliant I was and how amazing it would be when I finished. Amid all this fantasizing, the other half of my brain knew I didn’t have nearly enough skill to turn out a novel. Something was very wrong about the whole project – I didn’t have a word for it – I felt it in my gut. I started to think about failure and then I realized what I was dreading: audience response. It was funny in a way, I had so casually eliminated the audience from the equation, but here I was dreading how my imaginary audience would respond to the book I hadn’t finished writing. I started wondering whether my core logic was right. Sure, write I want, don’t give me orders, blah blah blah… And then I asked myself, “Who’s going to read this, anyway?”
Yeah, I know it sounds trivial, but it really never occurred to me. I didn’t consider that readers weren’t some abstract concept, but actual living people with minds and lives of their own. My perspective shifted; I did a little test-run in my head. Mom? Of course she’d read and she’d be proud of me for the sheer endeavor. Friends? One wouldn’t like the genre I was writing, so maybe she’d humor me, but I wouldn’t get more than that. Another was a voracious reader who would hold me to the standard of her favorite writers. But what about everybody else? I became flooded with panic. There were millions of people I couldn’t account for, that I knew nothing about.
A moment later I realized that I had just gone to the other extreme. My core logic, after all, while not totally right, was not totally wrong either – I shouldn’t ignore the readers, but I shouldn’t allow them to dictate either. I wasn’t writing for money, though I didn’t (and still don’t) find the idea of commercial success distasteful. I wasn’t writing purely for my own enjoyment, I really did want other people to enjoy my writing as well. Again, I’m sure this sounds entirely obvious and utterly idiotic, but I had never thought of it that way before. I know that was a long introduction, but I think it helps clarify how I reached the following conclusions:
You are writing for someone. Writing is a lot like having a conversation. Essentially, you’re expressing yourself, which means you’re expecting your words to make some kind of impression on the person you’re speaking to. Just like you would alter what you’d say and how you’d say it depending on who you were talking to, you’ll have to make certain decisions about your writing according to who you’re writing for. I’m not saying take a poll or a survey to see what people want (I meant what I said about not being a short-order cook). It brings me to the next point.
Someone is not everyone. You can't please everyone. Some people will "get" your writing, others won't. There's no need to lose sleep over it.
Someone is not stupid. You don’t have to explain every little thing. I think it’s Billy Wilder who said that you should let your audience think for themselves, that you don’t have to spell things out for them. In fact, most of the enjoyment can come from hearing other people’s interpretations and reactions. That having been said…
Someone is not clairvoyant. There is a difference between giving people room to interpret and being vague. Likewise, something may resonate one way with you, but resonate differently with someone else. Sometimes you need to give additional information in order for whatever it is you’re writing to come across the way you want it to.
I guess you had to be there. We (yes, I know this sounds crass) fall in love with the writing process and its challenges. We become so immersed in the creation that we often lose sight of the finished product, forgetting that this is all a reader has to go by in the end. They didn’t see you working. They don’t know what you put into it, they can only assume. It’s kind of like building a house or skyscraper and expecting someone to look at it and go, “Ooh, what a lovely infrastructure you have holding this together! And I’m sure the plumbing is just peachy!”
And that’s it, in a nutshell. Well, okay, more like a coconut shell.
Next time on Technical Saturday… Narrators and Point-of-View.
3 comments:
You have managed to perfectly describe my current struggle. The "writing for someone" does seem to be a vital, yet illusive, notion. This thought brings me to quite another. Every reader (I hate to generalize, but may I? may I?) feels, to a certain extent, that what he is reading is addressed to him. Well... that was the most polite reproach I have ever gotten. It even put a smile on my face. Thanks.
I didn't mean to reproach you, dear. I'd have to take out my soapbox for that. (It's at the carpenter's being varnished...)
Thanks, Stella, that was just what I needed = ) Being a writer is often like being a lighthouse keeper; I'm glad there's other lighthouse keepers out there who have the same battles. Cheers = )
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