Why Are So Many Writers Such Frickin' Pansies

Get on Twitter, they said. Facebook, too. Instagram, Snapchat, and Pinterest, woo-hoo. It's all great for marketing books, they say. They, of course, are people that have their heads up their collective rear-ends. For most writers, there may not be a worse way to present yourself to a wider audience than being yourself on social media. First, most of us are simply not very interesting which is why cat and food pictures feature prominently on some feeds.

Some writers are a bit delusional on this score, but let's face it, we sit around and make stuff up. In our pajamas. If we get fancy, we put on pants and go to the local coffee shop. Unless you get caught up in an episode of Friends, the excitement factor is somewhere south of 'snooze.'

Second, and more importantly, we are supposedly masters of story-telling. This is a nice way of saying that we are all a bunch of drama queens and a goodly number haven't matured all that much since junior high school.

All this first occurred to me when I read a retweet by Chuck Wendig back in April or June. I'd link to it but Chuck blocked me a while ago. (The reason for that will be a different post tentatively titled "Dude, Your Bullshit Detector is BROKEN.") The subject of the tweet was how dare a mere mortal publicly tell a writer that his book sucked. Chuck, as is his wont, felt free to tell people what horrible people they were if they did such a mean, mean thing.

My response on Twitter was that it was a good thing the writers in question weren't home inspectors as we get called idiots three times a week. Most writers aren't nearly mentally tough enough to handle the profession.

At the same time, it got me thinking.

What is it about being a writer that's supposed to be so damn hard?

So someone tells you that your book sucks. Or that you suck. So what? It doesn't stop you from putting fingers on the keyboard and putting words on the page.

Writing, like running, is about effort. Yes, there are a talented few that will be superstars. I'm not one of them in the running world - lousy oxygen uptake, too big, etc.

I might not ever be a superstar in the writing field either. It's way too early to tell and I have a ton of practice in front of me, but it's long odds against. To become competent, though? That's a practice and persistence issue. That's on me. Why would I let a negative nellie discourage my effort?

So, advice.

If someone offers creative criticism, take it. If someone is poo-flinging, ignore them.

You own the space between your ears. You get to decide where to apply yourself. Don't surrender your control.

Now, go out and do something great. Screw the odds and screw the naysayers.

It's your life - live it big.

A nagging feeling . . .

Trips to Kenya should come with a warning label. “Caution: individuals traveling to Kenya may experience unexplained disorientation and confusion on returning to their homes. Inattention may lead to hazardous driving, long silences, and immoderate consumption of alcoholic beverages. Individuals having experienced in small measure life in the Third World may also note a lack of patience with the trivial problems peculiar to the First World.”

I've been idling along since I got back from Kenya, going to work a lot, doing a (very) little bit of writing, and occasionally going for a run. Writing has suffered from a rather confused idea of what to do next, having finished one book and having a dozen waiting in the wings.

I started the novel about Grace, the main character in my future novel about Kenya. Started and ground to a halt over a bit of conversation. Meanwhile, the characters from the last book chattered away inside my head and the opening scene of the sequel popped. Eventually those voices overwhelmed Grace which means that her novel gets put on hold until I finish the series.

Or maybe not.

I'm toying with the idea of writing both at the same time. This morning, I happily spent an hour mapping the general outlines of the sequel. I have two possible endings for it, one pretty standard, the other a bit off the wall that I really need to understand before I try it. Tomorrow I'll try mapping Grace's story and see what happens.

To do both, I'm going to need to make a few choices. The biggest will be to deliberately forego income which is darn near Un-American. To make it happen, I'll need to focus on working with people that I like or on projects that I think are interesting. Those should generate enough to pay bills while I write, read, and run more. The second change is a deliberate effort to spend time in activities that are rewarding emotionally. That's more time with family, friends, and outdoors, less with bores, natterers, and nincompoops.

Life choice decisions like this aren't possible for the vast majority of Kenyans. For the small middle class, work is six days a week, a far cry from the American ideal 40 hour work week or the European 30 hours. For the rural areas, work is a seven day a week activity for everyone. When they aren't at their jobs, picking tea for example, they're working the family garden plot or tending to the cows. Cooking is still done over a fire for many women, laundry done by hand in a bucket.

We – you, me - live fundamentally comfortable First World lives which we are disinclined to disturb. That we can blame on evolution, which has hardwired us to be risk-adverse. As a survival strategy, it is highly effective. Surviving, though, doesn't translate to living fully, to rising up to meet our higher aspirations. For that, we need to take chances. More accurately, I need to take some chances.

It might work as well as the first, and last, man who thought domesticating a lion would work. If so, consider it an object lesson on what not to do.

Until I try, I won't know and that not-knowing will nag at me.