The Worth of Writing
September 16th 2006 10:06
Well, I did another mail-out the other day.
You writers out there will know exactly what I mean – a query, a synopsis, the first three chapters of your book, or perhaps the entire manuscript. Sent off into the world with a kiss and a wish, a dream, a prayer (whatever you’re in to) that this time, this will be it. You will be discovered.
For me, this is the most painful, agonizing, drawn-out part of being a writer – the endless writing of synopsises, trying to cram a 500 page book into an interesting two page spin. Just enough to entice them, not enough to blow all the twists in your book. Enough to lure them into your writing web, and get yourself onto that book shelf at the shopping centre, onto that bestseller list.
And who are they, you might ask?
They are the faceless agents and editors sitting in some fancy office in New York, apparently the publishing mecca of the world (I wouldn’t know this, however, from personal experience. I just hear, or read, about it – through other people’s books, through reading. Bitter, anyone?).
Sometimes they’re not even the editors of a publishing line, or that sought-after agent. Sometimes they’re the faceless assistant editors and agents, whom I actually like to regard in a favourable light. You know, the big, fancy agents and editors throw your envelope containing that must-read super-romantic-suspense-paranormal-comedy-series-just read it, for God’s sake, please just read it-book you’ve spent the last three years working on, slaving over, staying up till one am when you have to get up at the crack of dawn with your baby anyway…Well, they throw your work over their shoulder, absolutely certain all famous, brilliant authors are already out there and accounted for – J.K. Rowling, Stephen King, Nora Roberts, Dean Koontz (okay, I added Dean cause I absolutely love him, he’s my all-time favourite author).
These editor/agents appear in my imaginings as owning devil’s horns, immaculate Prada suits, with an amazing view of Central Park and absolutely no recollection of how they started out, perhaps with aspirations of becoming writers themselves one day…they were poor and broke and had big dreams, and were sensitive to anybody crushing them. They soon started out as somebody’s kick-around assistant, then slowly rose to the top.
How quickly they forget how somebody once gave them a break. Forgetting that they wanted to become senior editor/agent to find fresh, new, raw talent, they now crush people’s dreams before they’ve even had a chance to bloom, all while sitting in their fancy-pancy office and drinking lattes from the local coffee shop they sent their assistants to fetch.
Deep, expelling of breath needed.
Now, I see these assistant editor/agents as lovely, young things, with dreams still intact, and determination beyond all belief to find that new talent. That new big thing. That one new author they can retire on.
These are the ones, angel halos above their heads, and plain t-shirts and jeans on (after all, they’re a hip, happening, relaxed bunch), who actually read the work you send them. They read your three chapters from front to back, pore over your work, laugh when you hoped they would laugh, perhaps brush that one tear that has escaped and trickled down their cheek (okay, so you’d have to be pretty good to get an agent, assistant or not, to cry in the first three chapters of your book; if you were that good, you’d be published)…they take the decision super-seriously whether to take a look at the rest of your manuscript, or take you on. They don’t just toss your work over their shoulder like yesterday’s newspapers.
After doing these mail-outs, all these thoughts, all these imaginings, all this hope, all this bitterness comes out of me and stays for the one to six months it takes these important people to get back to me. If they get back to me. Some of them are just sooo big now they may not even reply if they don’t like you. Your work just gets tossed in the bin, without so much as a ‘thank you…but no.’
Like you were a telemarketer. Like you were pond scum. Like you’re so insignificant to them you don’t even warrant a reply.
Sorry, this bitterness becomes all-consuming after time. You writers out there will know exactly what I’m talking about.
Next, we come to the monetary side of writing. Does anybody know how much it costs us poor, struggling writers to send our work into the great big please-publish-me abyss, time after time again? Well, yesterday’s mail-out cost me $18 in postage. Then you add the cost of printer ink, of paper, and the cost of my computer, which we’re still paying off.
And, obviously, the mental insanity and bitterness that has taken me over.
You start to ask - and everybody around you starts to ask, as they watch your left eye twitch repeatedly, see the dark rings under your eyes, and are sick and tired of hearing you moan ‘when am I going to be published? When is it going to happen for me?’ – is this all worth it? Is writing worth it? Is this writing-induced insanity truly worth it?
Well, my answer to this question I ask myself - or my husband asks me, because he wants me to cook dinner or something equally sexist rather than tap away at the computer – is yes. Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!
For I wouldn’t be me without writing. I almost define myself by my characters, my ideas, my writing. That little fantasy world I live in, where the men are what women really want, and the female lead is an ass-kicking, sexier version of myself, and the adventures are fantastic, and if there’s a baby in the storyline, her nappies smell like beautiful pink roses…yeah, that world I created is great. I love it. I love co-existing in it alongside my real world.
And I know part of me wouldn’t be operating or wouldn’t be whole if I didn’t write.
Not to mention the excitement, the surprise, the delight, the shock in my sister’s emails or phone calls, after she’s read my books.
Priceless. And worth every insane moment.
You writers out there will know exactly what I mean – a query, a synopsis, the first three chapters of your book, or perhaps the entire manuscript. Sent off into the world with a kiss and a wish, a dream, a prayer (whatever you’re in to) that this time, this will be it. You will be discovered.
For me, this is the most painful, agonizing, drawn-out part of being a writer – the endless writing of synopsises, trying to cram a 500 page book into an interesting two page spin. Just enough to entice them, not enough to blow all the twists in your book. Enough to lure them into your writing web, and get yourself onto that book shelf at the shopping centre, onto that bestseller list.
And who are they, you might ask?
They are the faceless agents and editors sitting in some fancy office in New York, apparently the publishing mecca of the world (I wouldn’t know this, however, from personal experience. I just hear, or read, about it – through other people’s books, through reading. Bitter, anyone?).
Sometimes they’re not even the editors of a publishing line, or that sought-after agent. Sometimes they’re the faceless assistant editors and agents, whom I actually like to regard in a favourable light. You know, the big, fancy agents and editors throw your envelope containing that must-read super-romantic-suspense-paranormal-comedy-series-just read it, for God’s sake, please just read it-book you’ve spent the last three years working on, slaving over, staying up till one am when you have to get up at the crack of dawn with your baby anyway…Well, they throw your work over their shoulder, absolutely certain all famous, brilliant authors are already out there and accounted for – J.K. Rowling, Stephen King, Nora Roberts, Dean Koontz (okay, I added Dean cause I absolutely love him, he’s my all-time favourite author).
These editor/agents appear in my imaginings as owning devil’s horns, immaculate Prada suits, with an amazing view of Central Park and absolutely no recollection of how they started out, perhaps with aspirations of becoming writers themselves one day…they were poor and broke and had big dreams, and were sensitive to anybody crushing them. They soon started out as somebody’s kick-around assistant, then slowly rose to the top.
How quickly they forget how somebody once gave them a break. Forgetting that they wanted to become senior editor/agent to find fresh, new, raw talent, they now crush people’s dreams before they’ve even had a chance to bloom, all while sitting in their fancy-pancy office and drinking lattes from the local coffee shop they sent their assistants to fetch.
Deep, expelling of breath needed.
Now, I see these assistant editor/agents as lovely, young things, with dreams still intact, and determination beyond all belief to find that new talent. That new big thing. That one new author they can retire on.
These are the ones, angel halos above their heads, and plain t-shirts and jeans on (after all, they’re a hip, happening, relaxed bunch), who actually read the work you send them. They read your three chapters from front to back, pore over your work, laugh when you hoped they would laugh, perhaps brush that one tear that has escaped and trickled down their cheek (okay, so you’d have to be pretty good to get an agent, assistant or not, to cry in the first three chapters of your book; if you were that good, you’d be published)…they take the decision super-seriously whether to take a look at the rest of your manuscript, or take you on. They don’t just toss your work over their shoulder like yesterday’s newspapers.
After doing these mail-outs, all these thoughts, all these imaginings, all this hope, all this bitterness comes out of me and stays for the one to six months it takes these important people to get back to me. If they get back to me. Some of them are just sooo big now they may not even reply if they don’t like you. Your work just gets tossed in the bin, without so much as a ‘thank you…but no.’
Like you were a telemarketer. Like you were pond scum. Like you’re so insignificant to them you don’t even warrant a reply.
Sorry, this bitterness becomes all-consuming after time. You writers out there will know exactly what I’m talking about.
Next, we come to the monetary side of writing. Does anybody know how much it costs us poor, struggling writers to send our work into the great big please-publish-me abyss, time after time again? Well, yesterday’s mail-out cost me $18 in postage. Then you add the cost of printer ink, of paper, and the cost of my computer, which we’re still paying off.
And, obviously, the mental insanity and bitterness that has taken me over.
You start to ask - and everybody around you starts to ask, as they watch your left eye twitch repeatedly, see the dark rings under your eyes, and are sick and tired of hearing you moan ‘when am I going to be published? When is it going to happen for me?’ – is this all worth it? Is writing worth it? Is this writing-induced insanity truly worth it?
Well, my answer to this question I ask myself - or my husband asks me, because he wants me to cook dinner or something equally sexist rather than tap away at the computer – is yes. Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!
For I wouldn’t be me without writing. I almost define myself by my characters, my ideas, my writing. That little fantasy world I live in, where the men are what women really want, and the female lead is an ass-kicking, sexier version of myself, and the adventures are fantastic, and if there’s a baby in the storyline, her nappies smell like beautiful pink roses…yeah, that world I created is great. I love it. I love co-existing in it alongside my real world.
And I know part of me wouldn’t be operating or wouldn’t be whole if I didn’t write.
Not to mention the excitement, the surprise, the delight, the shock in my sister’s emails or phone calls, after she’s read my books.
Priceless. And worth every insane moment.
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Comment by K-Dog
Comment by K-Dog
Now I've had the time of my life
No I never felt like this before
Yes I swear it's the truth
and I owe it all to you
'Cause I've had the time of my life
and I owe it all to you
I've been waiting for so long
Now I've finally found someone
To stand by me
We saw the writing on the wall
As we felt this magical
Fantasy
Now with passion in our eyes
There's no way we could disguise it
Secretly
So we take each other's hand
'Cause we seem to understand
The urgency just remember
You're the one thing
I can't get enough of
So I'll tell you something
This could be love because
(CHORUS)
I've had the time of my life
No I never felt this way before
Yes I swear it's the truth
And I owe it all to you
With my body and soul
I want you more than you'll ever know
So we'll just let it go
Don't be afraid to lose control
Yes I know whats on your mind
When you say "Stay with me
tonight." Just remember
You're the one thing
I can't get enough of
So I'll tell you something
This could be love because
CHORUS
'Cause I had the time of my life
And I've searched through every open door
Till I've found the truth
and I owe it all to you
CHORUSx2
Comment by Joy
I love making my friends and family read my stories for the same way you do. Thank you for this post.
Comment by Pilgrim
Comment by carolyn
head for threads
Harmony's Forum For You
Harmony's Forum For You
Comment by Vixter
People
Diet Food Lifestyle
CHEATERS
1 For The Road
Thanks
I especially love that you have your parallel universe. I have one of those too. It gets better everyday and it really builds my confidence in the real world.
I love that your sister is your number one fan... I don't have one of those but with some work maybe I'll get me one.
Good Luck with your mail outs.
Comment by The Daily Sonnet
The Daily Sonnet
Lots of Sonnets
Comment by K-Dog
You have a great ability at pulling the reader in and joining them to the story in a very personal way.
I love it!
Keep it up Alemeroth
Comment by Ahmed
techy.Bytes
Video Gamer Kids
Little Green Foosballs
PolyKicks
Qwerk
Cinema Three
A while ago a famous screen writer re-wrote casablanca (you know that all too famous love movie), and sent it out to over 70 hollywood studios to see how many would accept it. He said that of those 70, only 4 recognised it was a re-make of casablanca and 2 thought it would be workable as a movie, the rest didnt even respond.
It's tough and you really need to get lucky in the writing industry, there simply is no respect for writers. We are the bottom of the pile in any industry we put ourselves in
Comment by bumpkin
Surviving Rural Life
Living Rural
Comment by Damo
For the Sake of Argument
My Apologetics
Don't get me started on publishers.
Story telling is so ingrained in humans that everyone desires to write a book but few achieve it. Even fewer write something that they want to send out and fewer send it off. Less than a handful of the books sent out are even read. See the pattern forming.
The question you should be asking is why are you writing in the first place? The author Richard Bach once wrote that if he could give up writing in he would a second. However once he is infected with the idea it won't leave him alone until it is on paper.
Comment by Brenton
Dr Spin
Tales From The Other Side
Downwrite
Blip Blog
Gadget Museum
Thankyou.
Comment by Johanna
PCOS Mum
It's always important to have a dream and you should stick to yours. We would be much less interesting, animated, dimensional etc without our hopes.
Comment by Katrina
I'm not sure this story would have occured without the experience and that as a result so many people could relate and feel they are not alone in their publishing struggle.
Best of luck!
Comment by K.L. Almeroth
Motherhood
Comment by Always Eighteen
Always Eighteen: Japan Edition
I think the problem with getting work published is the amount of people wanting to get their work published. Which basically means not enough time. My tutor, a manuscript editor at the UQ press, said she spent about 5 minutes on each manuscript.
Comment by Anonymous
I have self-published 3 books, which have sold relatively well, I believe. I'm happy for these accomplishments, but I suspect there is nothing quite like an acceptance letter from a major publisher.
Blessings to you and all of us who have the "write" inside our souls.
Shirley Buxton
www.writenow.wordpress.com
Comment by Ahmed
techy.Bytes
Video Gamer Kids
Little Green Foosballs
PolyKicks
Qwerk
Cinema Three
It was a great post and you deserved it no less.
Comment by Espie
Gifted Parenting
Freelance For Life
Comment by K.L. Almeroth
Motherhood
You have no idea how much your comment meant to me (or perhaps you do! You're a writer). I will keep this in my writing folder. Thank you.
Comment by K.L. Almeroth
Motherhood
Aaron appreciates your love for him...