Storytellersunplugged

by David Niall Wilson (Guest Spotting it)

Since Kelley was unable to post this month, and since, being OCD about anything resembling a deadline, I already had my next post ready and have three more weeks to replace it, I thought I’d go ahead and post this. Hope you all don’t mind hearing from me again so soon…

One of the questions any writer is going to have to ask and answer for his/her self is, “what do I want to do?” This might seem like a truly profound example of stating the overly obvious, but it is not. It’s an important question the answer of which will shape your career, your life, and at times your sanity. What do I want to do?

When you sit down to write a story or a book you answer this in some fashion. You want to fill a slot in a themed anthology. You want to make some money. You want to turn the literary world on its ear. You want to use that little snippet of profundity you overheard at Starbucks last week, or find a way to project a past memory into fiction therapeutically. You know what you want to create, how you want people to react to it, and what your basic goals are in setting pen to paper or fingers to keyboard. This is the most perfect moment in the creative process, and it is likely to go downhill fast once the moment passes.

In that pure instant of creative thought, the story, or novel, or poem, or screenplay – whatever you happen to be creating – is all yours. The world hasn’t touched it. Agents, editors, friends, family – all have yet to acknowledge it and dig in their claws, ready to rend, shred, re-arrange and quantify. Even your own doubts, professional aspirations, and inconsistency hasn’t had a fair shot. Cherish those moments, and imbed them as firmly in your memory as you possibly can, because once you start to work you have to gird for battle, and if you intend to remain happy, sane, and productive, you have to be prepared, for the most part, to win.

Everyone knows what is best for your work. Editors will blithely send you off to completely revise a novel without any real intention of signing their name to a contract once the changes are made. Friends will wish it was written in the style of their favorite author, family members may be supportive, but if pressed, will try to mold the work (and the artist) into something that fits more comfortably into their own private model of the universe. Stylists will cry “sell out” and realists will cry “Poseur,” and you will stand in the middle, duck your head, and let as much of it as possible wash over and around you, hoping not to drown.

Most of it is well-intentioned. Some of it is spot on and crucial to your growth as a writer. You have to learn to tell the difference, when to nod and wave and when to listen closely. All of it is subjective. All criticism is by nature subjective. There is that aforementioned difference when ink has been splotched across contract lines and you are working with a publisher / editor on a final product, but other than that, what you do or don’t change in your work has to be comfortable for you if you intend to continue in this business for long. When it’s all slowed to a dull roar, and you can think again, take a good look at what’s become of your work. Close your eyes and follow Sherman and Mr. Peabody into the way-back machine – set the date for the instant you knew what you wanted to accomplish, and bring that memory back to the surface. If you can hold the finished product and the perfect idea up, side by side, and still smile, you’ve fought the good fight. Move on as quickly as you can to that next perfect idea before someone comes along and convinces you to screw it up!

DNW