Joy To The (Writerly) World!
It’s the holiday season! It seems like seasonal joy has been somewhat of a theme here on WU lately. I’m not sure about you, but for me, somehow the writing life and this particular season have not always made for a joyful pairing. Don’t get me wrong, I can be as jolly as anyone. I mean, I’m as fond of the taste of peppermint where it’s normally not found, the sound of bells ring-a-linging, and the smell of a coniferous tree slowly drying out in the house as the next guy. I think it’s mostly due to the fact that it’s the end of one year and the start of another, but this season has tended to conjure more writerly angst than joy.
It might be my nature, but I’ve always leaned into self-evaluation this time of year. Worse, when it came to my writing life, for years I was inclined to a fairly harsh appraisal. Writing has been my primary occupation throughout the last decade, but in terms of tangible accomplishments, there have been precious few to count. The process of writing a novel is a relatively slow one to begin with, which can make looking back over the prior year a little dreary. A year is a long time, right? And yet, in the span of the making of a novel, not especially so. When viewed in hindsight, a lot of the year can feel more like treading water than sailing along toward a destination.
Speaking of destinations, I have also felt compelled to annually confront the weightiest of writerly milestones: publishing. As an unpublished writer, for many years I went through the same ole’ inevitable meta review: 1) Did you get published this year? 2) No? Well, did you do anything that moved you closer to being published? 3) Not sure? Well, do you think you can get there in the coming year? And more recently, there’s the bonus question: 4) No, you’re not much closer and the chances for next year are slim? Well, do you think you’ll at least get there before you lose your marbles and can’t do this anymore?
So now that I’ve sucked all of the joy out of your evergreen-scented home on the Monday of Christmas week, you might be asking, “What’s the point, Roycroft?” I’m glad if you did, because I’m here to tell you that this year feels different to me. And I’ve got a feeling that it could for you, too. If you’re up for a shift of perspective, that is.
Go ahead and warm up your peppermint flavored coffee or tea, and allow me to at least take a joyful swing at making things jolly and bright, won’t you?
None of It Matters
Those of you who’ve been reading me here on WU (if you have, thank you!) might recall that I’ve fairly recently made the decision to self-publish my debut trilogy, and I’m willing to fess-up: that decision is central to my new outlook. There’s still a lot of work to be done, and a big hill to climb once I hit the ole’ metaphoric publish button, but the process has led me to no small number of realizations. Realizations that have shifted my perspective.
The realization that’s had the most impact might, at first, sound harsh. To some it may sound painfully obvious, and to others it may—on its surface—feel dispiriting. But I promise you, if you allow your perspective to shift appropriately, it can be freeing. Even joy-inducing. Are you ready for it? All right, here it is: Nobody cares.
I spent a lot of years fretting over countless aspects of writing, and I doubt I’m alone in that. I’m talking years weighing seismic story-changes, months spent trying to force square pegs into round holes, recurring vows to quit, and no shortage of tossing and turning. Heck, a quick perusal of the topics for my WU posts over the years reveals a plethora of my writerly worries. The list includes: manuscript length, inclusion of a prologue, number of POV characters, use of genre tropes, reader acceptance of tragedy, and the appropriate portrayal of females as warriors. And those are just the highlights.
In other words, you name the writerly topic, I’ve likely found a way to worry about it.
Since I left my quest for a traditional publishing deal behind, I’ve allowed myself to tune in to the fantasy reading community in a new way. And you know what I’ve found? Nobody really gives a shit. Admittedly, my observations are mostly anecdotal, but I’ve found that even the most diehard epic fantasy fans have only a passing interest in how long a book is. Those who do care seem mostly inclined toward longer rather than shorter books. And I haven’t found any fantasy readers who genuinely care whether or not a story begins with a goddam prologue.
Readers want a good story. Full stop. I’d be a fool to avoid recognizing that the vast majority of epic fantasy readers will never hear of me, let alone care enough about my work to decide whether or not it fits their definition of good.
But you know what that means? It means I’m free. I’ve come to realize, in a new and wonderful way, that I’m utterly and completely free to stay true to my vision for this story. I’m free to choose how it’s presented, how it begins, and how it ends. I’ve got to tell you, after over a decade of fretting this makes me feel pretty darn joyful.
Yeah But… Sales
I want to start this section by acknowledging that I’m a lucky guy. Yes, writing has been my primary occupation for over a decade. And yes, I’m fortunate that I do not have to rely on selling books to pay the rent. I also want to acknowledge that I understand that the publishing industry has a primary underlying purpose—one for which decades of evolution and refinement have made it exceedingly adept: To sell books.
Apologies if my realization above comes off as crass. I honestly respect those who strive to maximize sales. I wish the very best to those who need them. I remain committed to supporting all of you, however I can. Also, I readily admit that my years of striving to make my work more suitable and attractive to the publishing industry have made me a better writer. I believe my pursuit of a traditional deal has mostly made my work better.
But I’ve found that my freeing realization has led to others. Again, they might seem obvious to some, harsh or even dispiriting to others. But I find them hope and joy inducing.
First, as a consumer, the thing I most crave in any artistic product is innovation, a fresh take.
Second, my striving for publication instilled in me a tendency to seek conformity (in a sense, the opposite of innovation). Not trying to assign blame–this was entirely on me. Whether or not it was foolish, I had come to a place where I’d unconsciously equated success with a sort of conformity.
Lastly, stepping back from my quest to be traditionally published forced me to get real with myself. What did I truly want from publishing? What had I really been seeking? Were they realistic outcomes? Could any of them be discarded? If so, what was I left with? Of course it would be nice to find a large audience, to receive accolades, to see my covers on bookshop endcaps. But even if I achieved them all, they are fleeting things. Books can last forever, but they rarely do.
While I know I’ll never be perfectly satisfied with any novel I produce, when it comes down to it, I would rather produce something that best matches my imperfect artistic vision than something that sells well. If the public results of publishing are almost always ephemeral, why wouldn’t I seek personal results that are enduringly self-satisfying, free of regret?
Each and every reader with whom I have found, or will find, connection is a blessing. Regardless of financial gain, I will be richer for having made this journey.
Imperfectly Me
Have you ever watched the video series called Polyphonic? If you’re a music fan and you haven’t, you should. Content creator Noah Lefevre utilizes video essays to explore various aspects of the music scene from a unique perspective that never fails to fascinate. In a recent episode titled The Great Singers of Old, Lefevre delved into a few of the vocal artists who rose to prominence almost a century ago, during the blooming of the fledgling recorded music industry.
One of the vignettes in the clip features Billie Holiday. Lefevre notes that the hallmarks of a great singer of her day were range and power. Holiday had neither. Her phrasing and pitch were far from what was considered classic. And yet, per Lefevre: “Holiday brought all of herself to her music, including her flaws—her off-kilter rhythms; things that were traditionally taught out of a singer—were the very things that helped Billie tell her own story through her music.”
Lefevre’s take on Holiday got me thinking about my year-end realizations. It’s not that I think writing books and singing on records align perfectly, or that I would ever compare myself to a great like Billie Holiday. It’s not that I aspire to her popularity or acclaim.
But what if my lack of conformity makes my work a bit more innovative? What if my imperfections–perhaps even imperfections that inhibit mass appeal–are part of what will define my uniqueness as a storyteller? What if the things that I leave out have as much to do with that uniqueness as what I include?
What if the stuff that kept me worrying, through all of the passages of one year to the next, could become the very things that make my stories special, even if it’s only to me and a few others who were meant to discover them? Isn’t that what really matters?
If so, isn’t that what will provide me with peace of mind—a peace that endures through all of the holiday seasons to come, through the rest of my days as an imperfect storyteller?
Isn’t that a cause for hope, a reason for joy? I choose to believe it. Whatever realizations you encounter this holiday season, I wish you the same peace in their discovery.
What about you, WU? Have you come across the peppermint refreshment that you refuse to try? Have you been watering your tree? Do you believe that your imperfections can make your work unique, and therefore more innovative? Are you ready to renounce writerly worry and embrace writerly peace of mind?
I bid you tidings of comfort and joy.
