I found my literary community online on Twitter.
It was 2012, or maybe 2013, I’m not exactly sure – basically
it was such a short while after I’d signed my first publishing contract (with Allen
& Unwin for Every Breath) that the
ink of my signature was still wet on the
page. This was about the moment when my
brother, Jared, said, ‘Ell, you’ve got to get some platforms, mate. I’m getting you a domain name. And while you’re at it, learn how to use
Facebook properly and get on Twitter.’
Twitter? I thought he
was mental. Why would I want to send 140
character missives about what I had for breakfast out into the universe? What could possibly compel me to –
‘There’s loads of writers on Twitter. You could be involved in the community.’
Ah.
Well, that made sense. Living two hours away from the urban action in
Melbourne made me feel disconnected from everything. I’d always worked alone. I’m not into scenes, I didn’t do parties or
events, and I was crap at ‘networking’. I
had no writer’s group, I’d never had a writing buddy. I’d tried a few things online - writer’s forums – to give me some
perspective on whether what I was producing was any good (I even made one
friend that way – hi Denis!) but I really had no idea about the industry or the
community that I purported to be interested in joining. I’d attended one writer’s course (and I made
some friends there too, although they lived far away in Melbourne). The only solid connection I had to other
writers was through their books – books that I devoured, sighed over, read and
re-read. The information that I gleaned
about craft, about submissions, about the professional aspects of writing…I got
most of it from books, or authors’ blogs, or whatever articles I could find online
with my wonky internet modem humming in the background.
Which was…fine.
Really, it was. I got by pretty
well with what info I’d managed to scrape together for myself while working
alone. I managed to fanangle a
publishing deal, didn’t I? I was doing
okay. I have to admit, being a solitary
writer in a rural zone gave me a feeling of specialness, a real ‘pulling myself
up by my bootstraps’ sense of myself. I
didn’t need anybody! I was a literary
island! No derivative outside influences
for me – my singular voice would be my stylistic benchmark. I could make my own rules and do it solo, and
my writing would be better for it, because it would be ALL ME.
The only problem was, it was a crock of shit.
When I hit a wall with a manuscript, I had no one to turn to
(except my books, my faithful friends).
I think I gave up on a few pieces because I just bounced them around
inside my own head without respite. I
didn’t even realise you could hit the
wall that way – I’d never heard of anyone else doing it. I figured it was just my own faulty wiring. Working out solutions to problems of craft
took a long time, because it was just a slow process of trial and error, and
checking back with dog-eared pages or bookmarked articles (a lot of which
contradicted each other).
And then, when negotiations began for book deals and so
forth, I had no freaking idea what I
was doing. Was this how it was
done? Was this normal? I had a bad experience where a publisher gave
me a twenty-four hour ultimatum to accept a deal or forget it – I angsted about
it, because I really didn’t feel comfortable, and in the end I passed, but I
had no other experiences, no other yardstick with which to measure this, and I
felt terrible.
What about problems with tax or legal issues? Is this advance split okay? Should I change the POV – can I even do
that? What do editors really want from
you? Am I being unreasonable? Do you have to promote your book yourself? Really?
Should I speak up more in editorial meetings? And what about speaking engagements? What about book launches? Does this chapter really have to go? Why?
I had so many questions about the industry, about writing,
about the profession in general, and no one to ask. I’d been alone for so long, hunkered down in
my writing cave, that I’d almost forgotten that there was a world of other
people out there who were struggling along the same way I was.
Then I discovered Twitter, and suddenly the universe
expanded. I connected with the larger
community of writers, in this country and overseas, and found a great number of
like-minded people who shared my concerns and questions, confronted the same
obstacles. Collectively, they knew a
heck of a lot more about the industry than I did, and they were generous with their
wisdom. Plus, y’know, being in their
company was just nice.
With the benefit of their frank advice, I was able to tackle
craft issues in new and more constructive ways.
I worked out how to handle my own business affairs (and I’m still
learning on that front). I was
encouraged to engage more at events (and that was a big deal – for city events,
I have to make arrangements for my family and then travel a long way, so it was
good to know which events were good to attend, and whether new friends would be
there to back me up). I developed a much
greater understanding of the industry I was working in, and the professional
standards and expectations of the literature sector. Above all, I discovered a great feeling of
collegiality and support, that I was not doing this on my own, and with that
came a renewed confidence in my own abilities, both in writing and in handling
the concerns of my new chosen field.
Twitter was great for me, because of the distance factor – I
could be involved while still far away.
Other writers I know who live closer to urban centres have the benefit
of meeting writer friends in person, or use alternative ways to connect. Facebook, monthly meet-ups, newsletters,
cons, beers at the pub… Whatever your
preferred method, there’s bound to be a way for you to touch base with your
writing community in one form or another.
I’m extolling the virtues of community here because I recently
read two articles that lamented the involvement of writers in the social
sphere. One was about a new anthology of American writing from The Paris Review,called The Unprofessionals – the editor
of this book, Lorin Stein, prefaces the anthology with the complaint that many
young contemporary writers have become ‘unthinkingly proficient’ at
self-promotion and networking, and that such engagement often draws writers
away from the art of writing itself.
According to Stein, this results in “less close reading, less real
criticism, lower standards, and less regard for artistic, as opposed to
commercial, success.”
The other article I read was a criticism of ‘literati
communities’ in urban centres, specifically in Melbourne. In her piece titled ‘Literati cities: just the spot for networking, less so for writing a great novel’, Brigid Delaney
highlights the idea (suggested by Adelaide writer Jonno Revanche) that compared
to writers who live and work in the urban ‘literature hubs’ of Australia, outside
voices are undervalued and aren’t as easily heard. Melbourne comes in for some particular
criticism for its ‘cliquey’ scene. This
is a fair cop – I understand what it’s like to be on the fringes of urban
networks – but what bugged me about the article was the idea that to be a real writer of Great Novels, one has to abandon
community and lark out on one’s own. According
to Brigid Delaney, the literary community may actually be holding you back from
producing something of real artistic worth.
She says, ‘You may need the scene to get job opportunities but you don’t
need the scene to write a really great book. In fact the further away you are
from any type of group-think, the better your writing will be, the more
unusual, the more surprising and the more vivid.’
Both of these ideas stem from the romantic concept of the
writer as The Great Artiste, slaving away over a hot Remington in a garret
somewhere. Real writers – according to
these articles – don’t engage socially, don’t mix well with others. Their focus is exclusively on The Great Work. Writers are a class apart, observant of but clearly
above the squalid affairs of human
life, and they would never stoop to something as crass as networking or (god
forbid) self-promotion, because they don’t
even care if anyone reads their work – the artistic merit of the writing is
its own reward. If writers involve
themselves in the petty concerns of Real Life (like, I dunno, talking to other
writers or even *gasp* promoting their own books) they will lose that
Specialness, that Unique Voice that sets them apart from the rest of the
proles.
I’m sorry, but this is horseshit.
It ignores so many issues that…well, I’m struggling here to
put the issues into some sort of coherent order, there’s just that many of
them. For one, writers are people, just like all the other people
you see around you. They have jobs, and
friends, and families (shocking, I know) that ‘impinge’ on their attention to
their Great Work every freaking day. I’m
not about to tell my seven-year-old, ‘Sorry, darling, but Mummy is too busy
with her Great Work to involve herself in your petty breakfast-making concerns
right now’ (no matter how much I sometimes might like to). Writers are forced to engage with others,
because social engagement is a part of what makes us human.
For two, writers are always
solitary – always, in their own head. We
don’t need to deliberately separate ourselves.
Let’s face it, even in convivial groups of friends we can’t wait to get
away and be alone with our inner voice.
Writers are always thinking about the story, the words that bring it to
life, and sure, everyone needs alone time to make those words happen on the
page, but you don’t need to isolate yourself from social engagement to ensure
that your focus is laser-pointed all the
time. That would drive you mental.
Are you worried that if you engage socially, your Inner
Voice will be watered down, or polluted, or somehow disappear? Really?
How insecure are you? (Okay,
writers are insecure, but…) I’m pretty
sure that your unusual, surprising and vivid voice is still there, inside you, no matter how much you
communicate with other people and involve yourself in normal life. Amazingly enough, it might even benefit you
to have some input from other sources.
Talking to people and engaging socially means hearing about other
stories, other lives – maybe that might add
to your voice, not detract from it (it’s not a negative-sum game, folks).
And are you quite sure that your issues of craft will be
magically resolved, if only you could have complete isolation? So I’m picturing you, the solitary Great
Writer, bumbling along like Thoreau in the wilderness, reinventing the wheel
every time you have a problem… Uh,
no. Just no. Give yourself time alone to work – obviously – but don’t cut yourself off
from your other writer mates who might (gee, I dunno) have gone through the same problem and have some wisdom to share. Writers need professional friends to lean on
in times of trouble, to ask for advice, to share the hard struggles of
day-to-day work with, and to offer encouragement and support. And if people are distracting you, then back
off – give yourself some space, absolutely!
But don’t worry that your Specialness will somehow up and vanish cos you’re
not living like a hermit.
Finally, I’ve got to ask the question of what you think you’re
writing for. Are you writing exclusively
for you? Then fine, live like a hermit,
write your stuff, then stick it in a drawer and pull it out every few years so
you can have a nice read. Are you
writing to enlighten yourself, or enrich your own life? Again, that’s fine, and maybe you will only
have a readership of one, but at least you’ve done something – you wrote! – and
the writing has fulfilled its function.
Maybe that enrichment might extend to others. Think of LaMott’s patients in the emergency
room. Do you write to tell a story that
you think others might empathise with, a story that they might see reflected in
their own lives? Do you write to explain
something you’ve realised about human existence, an explanation that is so full
of beautiful words and imagery that it resonates with others too? Then congratulations, you might have a
publishable work. Somebody else might
find something good and true in what you wrote.
Maybe lots of people might
find your book resonates with them – you have engaged, in the deepest way, with
people from many different perspectives.
This is social engagement.
The life of a storyteller is one of giving, of connecting with people, of hearing the chord thrum in every soul. Your writing does not exist in a social
vacuum. To think anything else is
dishonest. Your writing – your published
writing – is going into the hands of many people, is connecting you to them with
a fine golden thread that is no less real for being invisible. Again in LaMott’s terms, you are the host,
the person people come to for food and drink and company. That is a wonderful, humbling role to have in
our society.
You are a storyteller.
Own it. Then live life, get out
there, and find your community.
xxEllie
