Author: Scott William Carter

I know I wrote a while back that I was going to post in this blog more frequently. And yet, here I am, doing my once or twice a month posts. Oh well. I suppose it’s just a sign I’m not much into the live-I’m-eating-a-bagel-now-I’m-watching-reruns-of-Friends type of blogging. I know it has its place, but I just can’t bring myself to write about trivial things. Well, there’s always the possibility that what I do write about is trivial, but at least I don’t think of it that way when I’m writing it, so that’s something. Maybe.

Anyone want a bagel?

Anyway, onward to the point of today’s post.

Of all the things that can stop an aspiring writer from achieving any level of success, the cold reality of rejection is probably at the top of the list. For every short story or novel accepted by a publisher (and we’re talking reputable publishers that pay the author, not self-publishing outfits that charge the author), there are thousands that get nothing but a form letter saying, in one way or another, “thanks, but no thanks.” If you keep at it, realizing that writing is a craft that takes years to master, like any other worthwhile pursuit, eventually you get better, and you start getting more than just form letters — a few comments scrawled in the margins, then eventually full-fledged personal letters or emails with your name actually typed at the top. When you start to sell your work with more regularity, pretty soon editors are paying attention, and then most editors, when declining to buy your latest, try to give you some idea why what you’ve sent them is not right for them. Sometimes they go so far as to tell you why it’s not working at all.

Here’s the thing, though: a rejection is just a story. Like any fiction, it’s subjective, based on the experiences of the writer (in this case, the editor), and it may, or may not, have a ring of truth to it. One of the easiest ways for a writer to waste gobs of time is read too much into these comments. If the rejection is actually a rewrite request, then by all means any sensible writer would examine those comments closely, but if it’s just a “no thanks” response, well, then usually it’s best to just see the rejection as another story. A polite fiction. I’ve had editors tell me all the reasons why a story isn’t working only to have me turn around and sell that story without changes to another editor who praises everything the first editor found wrong with the work. One editor’s distate is another editor’s delight. As you get better as a storyteller, selling your work becomes less a matter of skill and more a matter of taste. Just like any reader, each editor’s taste is different.

That’s not to say you don’t fall on your face now and then with any particular manuscript. If you’re taking chances with your work, pushing yourself to make yourself grow as a writer, then you are guaranteed to fall on your face with great regularity. And there’s nothing wrong with that. You can’t learn to walk without falling down. But as you get better, you also have to determine when an editor’s suggestions are really something you should think about and when it’s just a reflection of taste. That’s called being a professional. It’s also called having a backbone.

Of course, your rejection could really mean that your manuscript stinks. There’s always that.

The point is: only you can decide. You have to be strong enough to be able to take honest criticism of your work while ignoring the stuff that won’t help you. The easiest way to handle it is to treat the marketing of your work as merely a process . You send something out, noting where it went, and if it comes back, you send it off somewhere else. If you do this enough, those little stories that editors send back bother you less and less. Of course, the sting never goes away completely. If that happens, it probably means you’ve stopped caring about your work, which may not kill your writing career, but it will certainly stop you from growing and learning, which is the same thing in my mind.

Here’s a pop quiz: do you think every writer should want to get to a point in his career where he never receives rejections?

If you answered yes, you’re wrong — at least in my opinion. If you’re not getting rejections, then you’re probably not taking enough risks, not pushing yourself hard enough, not learning to walk in new ways. There is no growth without failure. There’s no rewards playing it safe. So the good writer, the writer who’s always striving to get better, doesn’t see rejection as the enemy. The rejection you just got in the mail may have some truth to it, or it may be complete fiction, but it is always an integral part of being a professional fiction writer who is not satisfied with the status quo.

And there is no higher accolade for a writer in my book.

Recommended Reading:

• The Plot Against America by Philip Roth. At the heart of Roth’s ficional memoir is the premise that Charles. B Linderberg, a Nazi sympathizer, ran as a Republican candidate and won (instead of Roosevelt winning his third term). It was well done and provocative, with one of the best endings to a novel that I’ve read in a while.

Writing-related news:

• Spent a couple weeks rounding the young adult fantasy into final form so my agent can go to market with it, as well as making good progress on the new novel. Otherwise, nothing exciting to report.

Recommended Websites

• Check out SF Signal (http://www.sfsignal.com/), a blog that’s something of a clearing house on things related to science fiction and fantasy. If you don’t have time to go scouring hundreds of websites, this is a good one to hit.

“As I suspected, you’re a rank sentimentalist.” — Captain Renault to Rick Blaine in Casablanca

I have a confession to make.

I am a rank sentimentalist.

There was a time not that long ago when I tried to deny this aspect of myself, when I went to college and got my English degree, when I studied Chaucer and Shakespeare and literary criticism, when I thought Nietzsche was a god and Stephen King was a hack, and when my writing was mostly regurgitations of something Raymond Carver or Ernest Hemingway could have done much better. I wanted to be a literary writer and I wanted to write Something Important, something that would not only sell millions of copies but would also reaffirm my shaky belief that I was, of course, a literary genius merely masquerading as an ordinary human being.

Well, those days are long gone. That’s not to say I don’t enjoy Shakespeare, or that I don’t think literary criticism has a place in this world, or that I don’t at some deep down level hope, just maybe, I have Something Important to say, but it is to say that as a writer, and as a reader, I’ve decided to focus on what reaches me on an emotional level. If something makes me laugh, or cry, if something thrills me or moves me, I’ve learned to pay attention. I trust that instinct. You can’t reach people in a lasting way through their intellects anyway. And I now think some of Stephen King’s books and stories (not all, but some) will be read a hundred years from now when the vast majority of authors acclaimed by critics today are long since forgotten.

An outrageous claim? History will be the judge. Just remember that few people thought the works of Charles Dickens would survive and look at him now. There were a couple things lately that got me thinking about why critics are so often at odds with popular taste, why they so often miss the boat when it comes to books and movies and other works of art that live on and endure. While I don’t quite share Dean Wesley Smith’s opinion that most reviewers are failed writers, I do agree — and through experience, have learned to follow — his advice to never read reviews of your own work. It’s just too easy to upset the apple cart of creativity.

Isn’t it every writer’s goal to write something that becomes beloved? Something that becomes a classic? Well, what’s the definition of a classic? I’d say it’s something that’s not only popular, but also endures. The movie Titanic was popular, but will it endure? The Da Vinci Code certainly sold like hotcakes, but will it be read a hundred years from now? Who knows. All I know is that a movie like Somewhere in Time, which was eviscerated by critics in its day (one critic said the movie did for romance what the Hindenburg did for dirgibles), is a great movie. How do I know this? I know it because when I watched it this weekend I felt it, because it moved me, and I’ve learned to trust that instinct. And if a movie most critics thought was awful could spur people to create a fan club, well, what does that say about most critics?

It says they’ve let cynicism and contempt for popular taste destroy what made them fall in love with movies or books in the first place. Nick Hornby has a great essay which says essentially the same thing. Read what you love, and don’t worry about whether it’s critically accepted. And if you’re a writer, or painter, or musician, then create what moves you, and don’t worry about whether it’s critically praised or not. As much as artists might like to think otherwise, it’s best to remember that art is an optional activity. And the art that lives on is the art that reaches us on an emotional level. As a writer, I lay my bet on the fact that if something moves me, there’s a good chance it will move other human beings. We’re all made from the same basic mold, you know.

And just for the record, I’ve seen Casablanca at least a dozen times. And I’m not ashamed to admit it.

Another writer sent me a link to a BusinessWeek article about a summer boot camp for musicians that reminded me, once again, that what separates amateurs from professionals in any creative endeavor is practice. And not just any practice, but deliberate, intentional practice, often four or five hours a day — focusing on weaknesses, getting better, always striving to improve your skills and your techniques. Mindless repitition only reinforces bad habits, but good practice, and lots of of it, is far more important than native talent. Here’s a key passage:

The results were clear-cut, with little room for any sort of inscrutable God-given talent. The elite musicians had simply practiced far more than the others. “That’s been replicated for all sorts of things — chess players and athletes, dart players,” says Ericsson. “The only striking difference between experts and amateurs is in this capability to deliberately practice.” The group even determined the number of hours musicians must play to compete at the highest professional level — about 10,000, the equivalent of practicing four hours a day, every day, for almost seven years.

I’m still amazed at how many people I meet that think that if someone’s successful at writing (or art or music), that means they’re more talented than the rest of us. And while I don’t dispute that everyone has certain aptitudes, things they are better at than others, I would take the driven student, the one willing to work harder than all the others, over the “most talented one in the class” any day of the week. Give the hard worker ten years and suddenly everyone will be saying how talented he is. It happens every time.

I know my own modest sucess as a writer only happened after I got serious about productivity, when I started writing on an annual basis what it used to take me ten years to write. I went from writing four or five short stories a year to the equivalent of thirty or forty stories a year, though some of that was in novels, too. I also know that to get where I want to go, I have to up the productivity again. With a full time job and two young children, this is easier said than done, but there’s always time to do what’s most important. There also comes a point at which you cannot envision dedicating your life to anything else — that outside of your family, nothing is as remotely as appealing.

In the end, I do think the work itself is its own reward, and when you reach that point, a strange sort of thing happens. When you read an article like the one I mentioned above, you don’t think “My God, that’s a lot of work,” but instead, “My god, I need to be working that hard, too.”