Rejections, Reviews and Other Dubious Reactions
A friend recently complained about a review, which got me to thinking how I react to them, and by extension the slings and arrows of rejections and critical feedback and interpretations in general. Certainly a lot of folks have talked about this kind of thing here, so there’s no particular need to go over it again. And yet, I feel compelled….more on that “ego” thing later. Scroll on if you’ve heard this one before and don’t want to hear it again….
I believe it was Robert Heinlein who pointed out that (I paraphrase roughly - he was talking about doing revisions) when it comes to a story, the only person whose opinion matters is the one who’s signing the check.
Now there’s certainly a poetic conciseness to that idea, a compression of angst and sweat and ego and creative vision that forges a pretty hard diamond on the tip of one’s pen, to be accompanied, hopefully, by the clink (or shuffle) of currency. I’m sure there’s a bunch of you rising to arms against the conceit being applied to all reactions to one’s writing (and yeah, he revised, too, and depending on what’s being critiqued, not always enough), but bear with me for a minute.
There’s also Doug Winter’s observation that (again, roughly paraphrased) if you’re going to believe the good reviews, you’re going to have to believe the bad ones, too.
Ouch. That’s one tough hombre.
And finally, Doug Clegg, during one of his Jersey City “salons” a few years ago, observed (really, really rough recollection) that writers, despite their apparent insecurities, actually have pretty large egos because it takes a lot of belief in one’s self, at some level, to keep sending work out there in the face of rejection, or if accepted, the silence that so often greets the publication of one’s vision, or if there are accolades, the accompanying criticism, as well as the discrepancy between hours worked and money received.
So.
What does it mean when editors tell you your story isn’t right for their magazine, your book doesn’t fit the line, your numbers are really down? Or when a reviewer picks your piece as the “sucky one” in an otherwise fine collection (or picks out other stories as excellent in a crop of otherwise poor offerings)? Or when your critique group pans your latest?
Or a reader complains online that your writing is too obvious, or too complicated, or too something-you-never-even-thought-of? Or when your story goes forth and not even the crickets take notice and are silenced by its passing? Or when you can’t make a living in the game, or if you do, it’s not as comfortable as you wished it might be?
Or, you become one of the chosen destined to lead us all out of the genre ghetto and into the promised land of riches and literary acceptance?
It depends, I think, on what you need it to mean.
If you’re hanging on to the writing thing for a good review, or an award, or a pat on the back or a fan letter, to make the game worthwhile, or if you want to be some kind of star (and at cons and writer receptions, you really hear/feel this a lot from young writers) you might be in for a rough time.
Even if you’re using a paycheck as the measuring stick for writing worth, times and fashions change, numbers corrupt, and people signing the checks suddenly stop, not because the opinion they have has anything to do with your writing. No, the opinion more often these days is about how much money they think they’ll make (or lose) from that writing.
As someone who makes very little money from writing, is generally ignored on message boards (even his own), will never win an award, and has good reviews on his brief quote sheet only because, after thirty years and throwing a lot of stuff up against the wall, occasionally something defies the physics of ennui and sticks, I have to be careful about what I allow to have an effect on my desire and ability to write.
There’s not much setting me apart from the rest of humanity. Writing is one thing. So, I guess I fall in line behind Doug Clegg’s comment – in a world in which Shakespeare’s works are alive and well, along with classics from every age commanding the attention of new readers (or the producers of new media), and in a time when the mega mall B&N is a literary Library of Alexandria (not that most people would seek out those bits and pieces of that library in the store), I insist on putting my two cents in.
Who the hell do I think I am? Certainly not the guy who’s going to set the world on fire. Just a guy who needs to write, get published, maybe be heard once in a while in far off places for an instant before being drowned out by more relevant voices.
It makes me feel good.
So yeah, there’s ego. But that ego’s a funny thing. Survival, at least for me, depends on walking a line between too much and too little ego, like a shaman walking the borderland between good and evil.
Fortunately, there’s not much good news to turn the head, so that side of the path is covered. But the dark side calls, and it asks: why bother? So, yeah, those occasional bon mots keep me from straying too deeply into the depressed side. Being addicted to creativity’s rush also helps.
But in order for the stories to improve, and so advance the writer on the path of financial and critical success, the information that comes back on the writing – good and bad, from reviews, editors, your ego – needs to be processed a bit, absorbed, applied, in some way so the writer can exploit successful techniques and learn from the bad decisions.
In the writers group I belong to, formed by members of a class taught by Shawna McCarthy and further trained by Nancy Kress and Terry Bisson, we use this thing called consensus. Sometimes, the majority of people just don’t get a story or an element inside it. Just like rejections for a particular piece may keep piling up over the course of months and years. This is the universe is delivering a message: is one really to believe in one’s unsung genius, or does the story actually suck?
Reviews (like a writing group’s critiques) are delivered by all kinds of people, some knowledgeable and a few with genuine critical chops. Sometimes you get a nice guy who can’t write a bad review, and other times, you get the person who loathes the particular thing you do (no matter how well or poorly). Reviewers have their favorites, and you’ll never please some. Reader reviews are even more dicey – gods help you if your work is picked up by somebody expecting serial killers and you’re delivering vampires, or the the reader was in the mood for high fantasy and picked up sword and sorcery, or the cover blurbs signaled a touch of high-octane deep physics speculation but what’s delivered is military sf. And you don’t even want to know what happens when a cozy mystery seeker accidentally stumbles into a noir thriller. I’ve seen it, and it ain’t pretty….
Editors and agents are a different deal, of course. Anybody with experience in the business is worth listening to, even if they don’t particularly like what you’re trying to do. But even here, you have to tread carefully. I’m sure every writer on this blog can, over a few beers and under the cover of a blood-oath to secrecy, tell you stories about editors, publishers and agents who have their heads up, well, I don’t have to go all Bronx on you, do I. And editors and such can return the favor, as well.
Creative people, and professionals in the “creative” business, are passionate. They know what the like, want, and what works for them. They are not always best at seeing the “big picture.” They are not always terrific at distancing themselves from their little successful corner of the universe and seeing how someone else might succeed doing, or being, something completely different. Their tastes can be….idiosyncratic.
So my metaphor in dealing with the situation of feedback, positive or negative, is this: it’s all noise. Being a city-dweller, I think of it as listening to traffic, but rural types may hear nature’s sometimes subtle (insects, birds, the wind in the willows) and occasionally boisterous (thunder in the valley) call. Or, if you have kids, well, you know what I’m saying.
You don’t need to process every single note of sound aimed in your direction. But you do need to listen to the general noise level and understand what it means. A lot of sirens and flashing lights far ahead, even the flare of brake lights, is a warning to get off at the nearest exit. Country folk, gods bless ‘em, can smell a storm coming (unless they’s jes funnin’ with me). And you can sure pick out the sound of something needing attention with the gang of kids under your supervision if the tone of the yelling and screaming changes, or if it really gets “quiet….almost…. too quiet.”
Anyway, what I’m trying to say is the accumulated reaction you get is what’s worth listening to, short of the occasional brilliant and incisive critique that lights the epiphany bulb. It’s pretty obvious what the one ton of rejection slips and no publishing success is saying, and the options – workshops, critique groups, giving up, or just keep collecting those rejections because you just like to write – are all there for the pursuit of the reality of your choice.
A good review means about as much as a bad one. A few positive, or negative notices on a piece of work means, maybe, you’ve hit on something. Or, maybe not. An award, as far as I can tell from out here in the balcony seats, doesn’t do much when the customer picks up the book (because it has a cool cover, which draws said reader close enough to notice the title and maybe the “award-winner” blurb), opens up to the first page, and doesn’t like the words on the page.
I’m not saying awards and great review quotes and blurbs are meaningless – of course, they legitimize the work and the writer in the eyes of casual readers and busy editors digging through stacks of manuscripts. They’re great tools for getting noticed and laying the groundwork for acceptance on a variety of different levels.
But in terms of the actual impact on the work and how seriously a writer needs to take that stuff, positive or negative….I’m just saying, watch out.
Noise from various circles tells you what part of the market place you’ve reached – it’s up to you to figure out if that segment is worth reaching, and listening to. Everybody wants a best seller, but not everybody wants to write what usually becomes a best-seller. What writers want is the stuff they like to write to become best-sellers and, well, good luck with that.
On a more practical note, the noise you hear from editors, fans, readers, bloggers, message boards, reviewers, critics, your Mom, all needs to be plugged into the algorithm in your head that figures out what you need from your writing.
This is slow and steady stuff, I think, not quick decisions and sudden changes of directions. Hanging around my betters, I’ve heard media writers talk about the need to do more original work, and folks concentrating on their own thing contemplate jumping into work-for-hire to make ends meet. Some take jobs (or focus on marrying well).
The general noise can inform choices in characters, tone, genre, plots, etc, if you let it. All I’m saying is that I think it’s important to hang on a healthy bit of ego, figure out what you want from writing, and then filter that noise through your needs so you get something meaningful from it.
A bad review from someone representing an audience you don’t want is, in fact, a good review. Revising when you understand exactly what you’re going after, rather than jumping at popular or editorial whim, is I believe a sane decision. Fighting for what you believe works in a story and giving up when something doesn’t is the sign of a strong ego, not an over-inflated or weak one.
So. For the newer writers, I’d say, don’t believe Heinlein. Writers lie. They go for dramatic effect. Sometimes they even want to impress the rubes. (Of course, I would never….) He revised, and when he didn’t, he probably still sold the story but it didn’t become one of his steady earners on the reprint circuit, so he cheated himself.
And yeah, Doug Winter is right, treat the reviews and critiques, whatever their source, as the background noise created by your work. Whatever they may say, don’t get bogged down in defending yourself or your “vision,” and certainly don’t get hyped up on accolades. What will probably help most, anyway (I believe), are some of those negative reactions, as painful as they may be.
Because, when taken in bulk, they’re telling you something, just like big numbers adorned by critical contempt or low sales numbers accompanied by critical love (okay, those numbers may be telling you your covers suck and your publisher’s art director has one of his or her hydra heads up, well, you know….).
What you take from that background noise will have an effect on the creative and career options you make for yourself – some choose to write in simpler sentences and stay closer to traditional plots, others are satisfied with obscurity that comes with expressing a very specific and personal vision.
I remember Ed Bryant speaking as the MC for some kind of gathering (World Horror/Fantasy/Stokers) and pointing out that writers out on the edge rarely get rewarded for their efforts. Something to consider, if only as motivation to check out the nearest Home Depot for some rebar and concrete to fortify one’s ego.
Just on the editorial feedback side of the creative process, I remember meeting a writer years ago at one of SFWA’s NY receptions, lamenting that his advances were shrinking as his sentences grew longer. I haven’t seen him since. And, a young writer I used to meet at a Long Island convention every year had a successful military fantasy trilogy published, but grew so exasperated with the business that he stopped writing. And, of course, there’s the guy in Shawna McCarthy’s class who was quite stunned that writers couldn’t make gobs of money fairly quickly and walked out, and the other guys who, after a few rounds of critiquing, understood writing for publication wasn’t the thing they wanted to do.
So, yeah, Doug Clegg is also right – it takes a strong ego to stay in the business and be successful, or to quit it if it isn’t right for you, anymore, or to hang in there doing only what you love for however large, or small, an audience that passion earns, or to apply what you love to whatever forms and styles that will make you the money you need.
The background noise of reviews, critiques, sales, feedback, rejections and all the other reactions your writing provokes, filtered by what you want, know, and let yourself believe, gives you the signals you’ll need to make your choices.
Bring the noise. Bring the funk. It’s a good thing if you know how to use it.
All easier said than done, of course. But things to consider, to watch for in the jungles of the world and the self.
