Storytellersunplugged

By
Richard Steinberg

When Bram Stoker was halfway through the first draft of Dracula, he showed it to his friend and employer Henry Irving (the legendary British actor) to get his opinion. Stoker had already sold several short stories, and had published two novels: Under The Sunset (1882) and The Snake’s Pass (1890.) By all standards, he was a creative and commercial success and well on his into the London literary power structure.

When Irving unwrapped the brown paper from around the package he’d received at his summer home, he found the following note pinned to the first page:

“This is very likely not good, I’m sorry.”

The most common question I get from aspiring writers – a question I’ve seen in the comments section of this website many times – is: “How do I know if what I’m writing is any good?” It’s an obsession of nascent writers, a fixation of those who’ve managed that first hurdle . . . getting going in a serious manner on a project; and their darkest fear in the middle of the night:

“Am I wasting my time because I’m/it’s not good enough.”

Well, having just completed my 18th novel, and sent it out into the world for universal praise or derision, having written scores of short stories, thirty-one columns, and way too many e-mails, I think I’m in a position to answer that question for you. It’s an answer well known to experienced writers, most if not all of the contributors here, and certainly to any and all of your literary heroes. So here it is, with all its profundity and complexity:

The question is irrelevant.

Disappointed? Let me expand the thought.

“Good enough,” suggests that there are arbitrary standards of literary excellence. That somewhere there is written down or codified a list of those things “good,” and those “bad.” It suggests that publishing – on all its levels – is an industry peopled only by those who’ve “got it” and repels those who don’t. Even more, it implies that unless you can decrypt this mysterious cipher (figure out and write up to those wholly subjective demands) you are doomed to failure and tears.

Well, you’ve chosen to make your way in the arts . . . so there are going to be tears. Nothing much you can do about that. But failure because you weren’t good enough?

Please . . .

Internet literary critic (and living Goddess) Harriet Klausner proclaimed my novel, The Four Phase Man, as having bestowed “master status” upon me. A major Pacific Northwest daily said that the same book was: “an ecological disaster; in that trees had to die to create the paper this trash was printed on.”

And while I prefer to believe the Goddess over the hack; in truth, neither review of 4Phase’s relative “good enoughness” matters. What matters is more personal, far more intimate and insightful; some questions that I ask myself before, during, and most certainly after every project I’ve ever completed.

Did I say what I wanted to in the story?

Did I say it in an entertaining manner?

Will readers be comfortable reading my writing style?

Do my characters make sense, are they realistic enough, are their conflicts drawn from those mortal dreads we all share?

Did I spend too much time on really cool – but essentially extraneous – subplots? A weakness of mine.

Does the story start early enough, is the central conflict clear enough, and are those things resolved by the end that need to be?

And nowhere therein is the question: is it good enough?

The bestseller lists are often filled with creative typists as opposed to skilled writers. Hacks who, I assure you, are NOT “good enough” sell millions of books per year; while many brilliant writers go unpublished for too long periods of time. This is a result of the commerce grinder for which “good enough” is meaningless; replaced, instead, by: is this an easy enough publish for us? This is the way of the publishing world and bitching and moaning about it serves little purpose other than momentary entertainment value.

Which I do indulge in far too often . . . but then I’m still working on the perfection of my being.

Don’t worry about being good enough . . . write!

Don’t waste time trying to find the magic recipe that if followed will produce perfection . . . write!!

Don’t doubt yourself because you think there are standards or demarcations of skill that must be met . . . write!!!

If you have to ask yourself some questions (and asking questions IS essential to improving) try some of the above, create your own, or maybe try the “Thixton Rules.”

Robert Thixton is not only my manager and literary agent, he is also one of my closest and most cherished friends on the planet. And less than three weeks into our now ten year professional relationship, he gave me some guidelines through which I could judge my work. Things that had nothing to do with “good” but all to do with the things that matter. Guidelines that I continue to review during (and immediately upon completion) of every project I write. They are:

1: Cut the cute!
2: Can you feel anything?
3: Are you being clear?
4: Are you writing in your own voice?
5: As long as it comes from you, from inside you, it’ll be great. The rest is just professional technique, and that can be learned.

And while you’re at it, try not to doubt yourself, to compare yourself with the literary flavor of the month. Try not to spend too much time looking for the arbitrary good . . . it doesn’t exist and can only create a negativeness that will infect everything you do. And understand that all of us have those doubts; those gnawing creatures chewing on the sides of that dark and gooey place within us all that the writing springs from. Having those doubts is your dues for joining our exclusive little club.

Vladimir Nabakov’s Lolita was reviewed as: “a book that should be buried under a rock at the bottom of the sea for ten thousand years.”

Frank Herbert’s Dune was called: “the worst piece of writing to get published in the history of civilized man.”

Robert Louis Stevenson, upon the release of Dr. Jekyll & Mr. Hyde, was described as: “the worst writer in the Western world . . . proof that if you have the right friends even bat guano can be published.”

Which brings us back to the insecure Mr. Stoker.

As Irving sat back on three consecutive summer evenings to read the pages his friend had so morosely sent him, he was inspired to take pen in hand and send Bram a note, which included the following:

“I can say with true conviction that I do not know if this work is good or not. I do not even pretend to understand what it is that you are trying to say within these pages. But this much I do know: this book is drawn from either Heaven or Hell and most certainly could not have been written by any save you. And you should no more judge it than you should cease to breathe. Bravo, sir!”

Works for me.

Believe!