good writers don't
On top of her shoulders is a face-shaped sign that reads, in Barnum & Bailey ornamental all-caps, TWO-TIME GILLER PRIZE NOMINEE! and where her eyes should be there are two electric stars that flash with that flourescent-bulbed BZZZT. BZZZT. BZZZT. And she's nice, very nice, but the niceness of her fails to outweigh the weight of what she is.
"Is this your first book?" she says. BZZZT. BZZZT.
"It is." I tug at the hem of my skirt, which suddenly feels too short. I look past my lap and regret that my flats are bright green. Everything about me feels girlish. Next to a TWO-TIME GILLER PRIZE NOMINEE! I have pigtails and orthodontic headgear.
+++
You know how you see crows, and they're always hopping along the side of the road, looking like they don't need anybody? The group nods, and I wonder how many of them have been to a writing workshop before. I haven't. They always look alone but really, they're a little travelling village. They're odd and hoarse. They don't chatter. They're either quiet or they're screaming. They always look like they're up to something. They band together to figure out who's left their garbage uncovered.
If you're a writer, you're going to feel lonely sometimes. But every now and then you'll come across someone and you'll see it in their eyes that they're like you. Watch for those people.
Luke, the 15-year-old with the gigantic notebook and the world inside his head, smiles.
+++
Is it so wonderful, writing? I don't know. It's romantic and indulgent and optimistic, an inherently defiant act. It is a squawk that hopes to coax the squawks of others. But it's hard bloody work both greenlit and sabotaged by ego.
At a writers' event this past weekend, I was one of three. The other two had done it before -- the headliner appearances, the readings-as-performance-art, the teaching and lecturing. They get reviews in the Globe & Mail and people argue about their books at swishy dinner parties and they write with artistry, adult fiction, while I am on the internet, either tangled in the death of my son or compensating with douchebags and half-naked Scotsmen. They ask kindly how it all came to be and I mutter the word blog behind my hand because I suspect the sum of what's here, but I haven't looked lately. So I do. I look, imagining the grimace of a literati.
I scroll and scroll and scroll. I note the word pussy used three times, once with capitals and exclamation marks. I get points for avoiding the word 'awesomesauce' but I lose points for almost throwing up on the side of a highway. I see rants and despair and I see that I'm much less resolved than I thought I was. Then I see the Humpty Dance. There is a no-fault clause for the writing about Liam but the rest is an increasingly directionless knee-jerk, a counterpoint. I write occasional darkness. Then I write hot pink with watermelon-scented glitter so that you don't turn away. But it's cheap tricks, all of it. Happy clown / sad clown. Either way, I wear bright green shoes and I can't look a Giller Prize nominee in the stars.
Again, I'm going to try and head you off. This is not a plea. You don't need to tell me that the second book, if I manage to finish it, is going to be awesomesauce. I'm humbled to the point of being frozen solid and if you say nice things about the myriad of mind-blowing ways that I've used the word 'douchebag' in the past few months, I will throw the collected works of Giller Prize nominees at you. Tread carefully. Those books are HEAVY.
Instead, tell me about a humbling moment in your writing, art, sports, life. Anything. Tell me how you managed to leave the hotel room and fake it, so to speak, despite that crushing humility. And tell me what happened after that. I'd really like to know.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Reader Comments (56)
They all have to read my work twice a week and critique and it was humbling but helpful and that prof is a friend of mine now and I treasure that time I do but I will never forget that feeling the first day, as if God was above shuffling me around like a wayward hamster and saying,. "No dear, this is where you go. Be good with it." And I guess I am and am not all at the same time even today. I want to be a "real" writer, dangit!
What came next? Contentment, laced with a fear. And it's delicious.
So, not many of my online friends know that I've been slowly mounting a "small" fledgling photography business over the past year or so. I've shot over a dozen families (they are my favorite) with a certain measure of success. I even have some repeat customers.
Late this Spring I was approached by a mutual friend to do a maternity/family shoot (they have a 2.5 year old). When I got there, they told me they weren't feeling "stellar", their 2.5 year old kept running away from me, they had several large "Studio Shots" blown up and on the walls (the complete opposite of the way I shoot), they weren't really in the mood to head outside and the lighting in the house was awful. The shoot went "ok" but I knew it was not my best work. I tried real hard to fake it....but it didn't feel right. It just felt "off"...and I kept wondering whether I should be pushing them to be outside or to push myself to be better....but I didn't.
When I finally edited the pictures, they turned out far better than I hoped. The black and whites were soft and emotional and I thought they really told a story about a young family awaiting big things.
They didn't have the same opinion.
When I delivered the pictures they seemed so underwhelmed that I refused to take any money. I felt terrible.
I've thought about that shoot about 25 times since that day....and I think it's perhaps been my biggest learning tool so far. I learned to stick with my instincts, don't ignore the inner voice...and to talk to "clients" about what they expect (i.e. studio type stuff, lighting, etc...).
My mistake that day.....was being too arrogant/afraid/intimidated to talk to the family. I tried to fake it....and I failed at that. I take full blame....and I won't do it again.
Incidentally, several people have told me (in looking at my portfolio) that they love some of the shots from that day....but the most important people did not. My next shoots were extraordinarly nerve-wracking....but I learned from that day....and I've not approached a shoot the same way again.
Shine on.
xo
That's what humbles me.
You leapt. Be proud.
You Kate, you write. The internet is just an easier way to get published. Beautiful words are beautiful, no matter where they're written. Sometimes, graffiti is breathtaking too. It doesn't make it less, just different.
I spoke to an MEAA (Media Entertainment Arts Alliance) group as part of a Walkleys event (Walklleys in Aus, do big things, big awards, big journo stuff). I was there as a blogger and a social media expert. I felt like a fraud, next to a journalist who teaches and the editor of the state's newspaper, and a fellow blogger, who said blog like it was a dirty word and said 'I'm not a blogger, I'm a writer'.
It was terrifying and exhilerating and at the end of it, I was asked to come back and speak to the Journalism classes at the University. To LECTURE, on social media, blogging and how to integrate it with traditional journalism.
I still feel like a fraud, even when these things are in the works because I've not actually spoken to them yet (teacher is on long service leave until August) and normally, I'm too scared to breathe it out loud in case it tumbles down around my ears. Because me? I'm just me. I'm not interesting, or brilliant, or an expert on anything. Not really.
But, but but. I don't want to live that way. I want to believe in me.
The rest of the retreat was hell and I cried everyday. The cliques, the skits, the jazz hands. Gaaaah. I felt 15 again, stomping down the hall and slamming my door. Why couldn't I be the girl with the gravitational pull and the colorful scarves and mad skillz on the guitar? And then I let it go. Because at the end of the day, we all shit in the same pot and we're all made of the same skin and guts. And I'm pretty sure that 98% of my guts could care less about the Giller Prize/impressing people at artist retreats. But damn that 2%.
I find it really, really useful to remember that I'm just another person in the room, and so is that award nominee. And it's fine, recommended really, to be exactly who I am instead of trying to fake being something I'm not. What I am is a writer, and so are you, so don't worry about that part. Just give yourself space and occasional reality checks.
I feel that way about motherhood. Like I am just faking being a 'good mom' until they are grown and we will see what they have become. Did I fake it enough to convince them? I love them so deeply that it would sound trite to describe. But I am tempermental and inherently lazy. And selfish. I am all of the things I don't want them to grow up to be. I look around at the other moms. They are busy. They make me tired. They zoom here and there with kids, "for the kids", and I wonder. Are they doing it right? Am I wrong? Must I exhaust myself to succeed at this? Doesn't matter. It isn't in me, to be like them.
Now. I have to say something to you. You have humility. You are humble. Oh, I am sure you have your conceits. We need those to, to keep us above water and feeling sometimes that we are worth it. Worth the love that is given to us. But mostly, humble, and it makes you feel inadequate. But Kate.....I came here years ago because of the tragedy. To share it with you and cry with you silently. To hope. I stayed because I love your voice. All of them. The dark one. The glitter and high heels one . The good mom, the bad mom and the damaged soul too. I especially like the cursing and crude one. Her twin lives in me and they only get to play with a select few and not often.
When my beloved uncle died tragically last summer I couldn't stop thinking of the most insanely inappropriate jokes. They were like soda fizz on my lips. Constantly bubbling over. Only a couple of people can take that. They let me laugh while my heart was breaking. I have a dark humor that doesn't pass the white glove test. I feel guilty and low class for it. But you know what? My grief makes me laugh and that makes my burden lighter. I can function and move on while others with more appropriate outlets are taking zoloft and floundering. Does this make sense? You may not be appropriate, afterall. But you are alleviating burdens and you have compatriots.
Crystal
Now here is my story:
I recently went to a 5-day workshop with one of my photographic idols, and we had to bring a portfolio "that best represented my work." I couldn't choose. I wanted to bring what I thought was my best work, but was convinced that wasn't necessarily representative of my work. So I brought the stuff that wasn't quite working for me but they had kernals that I liked and I didn't know why they didn't work. I'm quite certain most of the people in the workshop thought I sucked, including my idol. But he pointed out things I wasn't aware of and challenged me to work in a new way. I ended up wowing them on the last day. It was actually embarrassing how wowed they were, because it crystalized how shit they thought my work was. On the one hand, I've decided that in the future I will bring my best work to show at things like that. But on the other, I really don't believe I would have learned and grown so much if I had brought my best work. So... I learned a whole lot and made huge strides in my photographic practice, but man, the week FELT AWFUL. The whole week. AWFUL. Until that last afternoon and evening (when we all went out for beer and exhibition openings).
My best friend at the time had an older brother who had seen some of my drawings, and he asked me to create a tasteful painting of his wife for her birthday. He wanted an image of her in the Nagel style, and he was willing to actually pay me. For a girl who had dreams of Parsons as she slogged trays of ice cream at Friendly's, this offer was an incredible compliment.
So I painted. John gave me a photo of his wife, a 'glamor' photo taken at a nearby mall, and I went with tones of charcoal to offset her dark hair and red lips. I spent many nights after dinner and homework making sure it was just right. When it was complete, I admitted to myself that the painting was good, but not great. With shaking hands, I delivered the tube to my friend at school the next day. It would be several days before I heard back that her brother, living with his family in North Carolina, was delighted with the painting. His wife also loved it, and was flattered. But a voice in my head insisted that - still - the painting was amateurish at best.
You can imagine my shock when I subsequently received a phone call from a North Carolinian print store owner. She wondered if I would be interested in creating a few more paintings in a similar style for her to sell. Interested? I nearly threw up, sitting right there on my bed, legs crossed, staring at my drawing table.
"How much would you charge?" asked the woman from the print store. I stammered that I wasn't set on any amount in particular, but could 'work' with $100 per piece. Where the hell did I get that number? I have no idea. I wanted to sound professional. I wanted to sound like I thought my work was worth that much. I wanted to sound as though I knew what I was doing.
Of course the woman politely said she would get back to me, and never called again. All my fears came home to roost - I was an unpopular kid on the outskirts of the art crowd. I was really not that good of an artist, but I wasn't really fit to be anything else. Was I humiliated? In a sense. But really, it just felt like an affirmation of everything I already knew to be true.
-Lisa
I used to think I was a pretty good writer. I don't so much anymore.
BUT.
I read in Stephen King's truly excellent book "On Writing" (seriously, it's awesome) that whenever he does a Q&A, someone always says to him "I've always wanted to write". To which he always replies "then just write, man". That's what I keep telling myself. Just write, man. For me, not for anyone else. And as long as once in a while I can feel good about what I wrote, I'm less worried if you all think I'm just rambling into the ether.
Also, that two-time Giller Prize nominee? Bet she gets overwhelmed and intimidated by, say, Yann Martell. ;)
I used to tell stories about the dandelion that I see through the window, the one that catches the sun for only a couple minutes each day, casting gold light into the office. I used to tell stories about the sound of honeybees dancing on the old cracked gravestone in which they've made their home. I used to tell stories about the color of the sky and the boys splashing rain puddles under their boots and the smell of fresh-baked bread in the morning, so real and natural and down-to-earth but only made possible by the timer on the bread machine.
But I don't write anymore. First there was the separation and the harassment and the divorce. Then the move. And there was a heartbreaking long-distance relationship that kept my heart holding its breath and I didn't dare let it beat. My heart, my heart that used to beat its beat through the tip tap of the keyboard, but now it works hard, too hard and never hard enough, with the rest of my mind and body to support this beautiful new family.
I work full time now. But I used to write.
First time I ever posted a comment here? I felt so exposed and nervous, new to the blogging scene as I was. I ABSOLUTELY felt the orthodontic head gear and pigtails with some bad skin to boot. How could I dare to comment on sweetsalty KATE's site? How could I be so bold as to comment on grief? I was just a newbie, who was I? I had nothing but aspirations while Kate has a real honest-to-goodness book about pirates and this backlog of posts, every one of which twangs my inner banjo string. And now I'm going to add my two cents??
But then I grew a pair and realized that...
a. there will always be someone who's one more rung up the ladder (or two thousand gazillion rungs) than I am, and
b.I had nothing to gain from avoiding conversation with people who have accomplished more than me.
I have lots of writers who are friends, most of whom I knew before they were published. We've remained friends as their careers grew and it's been a hoot to watch. When my best guy friend's third book ended up being a million dollar book? Best thing ever. When my husband won the GG and we got to go to Rideau Hall and meet Adrienne Clarkson? Highlight reel material.
A few years ago I met a well respected playwright at a book launch. I gushed. I told him how brilliant I thought he was, etc., etc. etc. He was an asshole about it. He made fun of me infront of a group of people I respected. I was so embarrassed, so fucking embarrassed that instantly I hated him. But then, of course, I hated myself. I excused myself, still hearing his laughter, and wanted to die. I begged my husband to leave soon afterwards, even though this was partly a party in his honour.
I learned from that and from watching the careers of those I love grow, that everyone is just a person with their own issues and insecurities. That for writers, writing is their job. Yes, it is hard, but so is building a house, teaching a child to read, managing a corner store. Those who work hard are rewarded. Those who fantasize about the lifestyle instead of doing the work don't succeed.
I didn't handle that incident very well. I fled and even now, many years later, I still squirm in its memory. But I learned to never gush and to treat everyone as a peer, regardless where they are on the publishing rung.
I've spent the past five months being freed of GIANT INSECURITIES and not being able to breathe, all at the same time. I've been encouraged and humbled at the same time. I'm still at a loss at how something so life-affirming can kick me while I'm down too. It's incredibly perfect and SUCH A MESS all at the same time.
I can't even leave a tag line like, "NOTE TO EVERYONE! Avoid cross-Pacific long distance relationships at ALL COSTS", because as much as it sucks, and as much as the logistics surround me like a plague of filthy insects, it's so damn worth it.
Humbling. Horrible. Awesome(sauce?). I guess I just have to keep getting back up. Deep breaths.
Oh, and you are brilliant. Anyone who tells you otherwise (including yourself) will be tortured in a more obvious way than you torture yourself. Drawn and quartered. Dripping water. Listening to Enya. *is off to google more techniques.*
Power on, Kate, Your honesty in your humility is spurning me on. xo
I've had to think long and hard about why I do write and take pictures. The best answer I can come to at the moment is that it's because I *am* doing it. All those moments at so many times in my life where I put off doing something waiting for some magic moment when the stars aligned and my brilliance would shine with no effort? Just a load of hot air. Every writer I've ever read on writing says the same thing: 'Just write. Wtite and write. Write as if your life depended on it, write what's there..'.well, you've all heard it too.
Likewise with photographs. 'Get out there, shoot. Take pictures and experiment, and find your visual voice.' Jogging lamely alongside the exasperation of 'WTF, what if I don't even *like* my voice, visual or otherwise?' I push to see something someone else liked in amongst this barage of an inner-created obstacle course. I hate critic in me, as much as I seem to cling to it. I hate that I cling most of all.
I tell myself to put a sock in it, because I know it's all just unecessary, useless, arrogant ego and I can hardly see anything, can barely absorb anything I need to learn *so* badly while the bully is out there in my playground bellowing, unassailed by the voice of reason or a cement truck or some higher power's lighning bolt - anything - to stop the powerlessness in my gut as I curl up to protect myself. I can feel part of my mind pushing against it, against the roar blocking the flow of whatever is in me that wants to come out, all Bambi legs and clueless about what the 'real world' is like.
Blogging and taking up my photography again got me off my procrastinating ass, and started. As ugly as I think that my work is at times, a part of me is deeply proud and pleased by the fact I started. For me it's huge. I am no longer sitting in the goddam bleachers, bleating like a fool car alarm no one pays any attention to. I am, finally, DOING it. I am chasing up and down the basketball court, unfit, red faced, out of breath, throwing the ball to those far better than me, but a part of the action. Learning, learning, learning. Kyran Pittman was the final straw, (thank you, Kyran) for starting a blog and Pioneer woman photography had me picking up my camera again. The dozens of bloggers that I let intimidate me, I let inspire me whenever I can. Most days they do both. I know how I take things in is my choice, even in the midst of my fury and frustration. When I finish my temper tantrum, I try let my two year old have enough room get up and try again. She's far more likely to succeed than the judgemental adult. As blinded as I am by my own nonsense, I know from experience that this is so.
This is how I live the creativity of my words and pictures. I hold on tightly to the idea of an abundance mentality, another idea that Kyran talks about on a regular basis; that there is space and room, need and meaning in the world for what each of us creates, in the myriad ways we all create it. I keep talking to myself and I reach out to others, and somehow it all works when I step back, and let myself look at it in the round.
Maybe I put this up on a post on my place, it's certainly hit a nerve for me.
I really like your work, Kate - thank you for sharing it.
And, hey, I'm sure that readers of highly- praised novels often get helpful, meaningful insights out of them, but your words helped me when I really needed help, scented glitter and all.
I have no desire to be beaned in the head by heavy books, though, so I'll mention that the one short story I sent off for hopeful publication garnered me no response whatsoever, even though I'd included my self-addressed stamped envelope as instructed. And the one academic article I really loved and was fond of is the one that was most harshly critiqued (and rejected). I saved the rejection email and comments, and every once in a while I see them when I'm cleaning out my inbox. I shudder and then start looking around for hard liquor.
But you know what? I am a work horse. Before becoming a mama, I never had less than 2 jobs at once, and mostly it was 3 jobs. I can kick ass when it comes to tasks, and given the chance, I can be the best employee you can get. And a lot of those family members who *think* they are musicians are actually deadbeats. So in that way I guess I am pretty good at something. I get things done instead of waiting for something to happen.
Does it stop me? From reading? From commenting? From (occasionally) writing? No. Well... sometimes.
But it also inspires me. By reminding me: to try to be better. To strive to be worthy.
seriously. can i, um, present parts of this conversation? accredited, of course. but it does a beautiful job of presenting what it is that hobbles most of us...and it's us.
and i tend to be a jack of all trades, master of none so there is rarely a time that i am called out.
must inquire if i can steal the word awesomsauce to inject into the bizarre california lingo that already floats around here. is this a canadian word or a kate word?
and maybe after you have 5 or 6 panels under your belt you will see that newish author, you'll know the one, and you can extend your found confidence to her/him.....because i have no doubt that you are a writer, kate. this comes from a professional reader.
Bon, you can use whatever of this you want. All it will cost you is one box of chocolate weetabix and a tarot reading.
M, yes, she was very kind and generous and I wish we'd had more time to talk. She wasn't projecting the stars at all. It's just what I saw. (for the record it's Lisa Moore, whom I met along with Beth Powning, who was equally festooned with circus lettering and fairy dust.)
Falling... over.... thank yo- ... (thunk)
your braver than me. i have a hell of a hard time leaving the hotel room.
everything is illusion.
So I guess I have no answer for you other than yep. Me too. And that we just keep plugging because even though we may not want to admit it, we know we're doing what we should be. Right?
I won't tell you you're a good writer or anything because I am good at being obedient. Can I win a prize for that?
One of my first critiques was terrible. People said the work was static and my models were undeveloped. It went on and on in slow motion and I had to leave the room, in tears. My peers hugged me afterward but I really wish they hadn't because it reinforced that EVERYONE KNEW HOW BAD IT WAS. I have paper thin skin and that was very hard to take.
And then? And then nothing earthshattering happened. That was 3 years ago. Since then I've kept going, doggedly, trying to figure out my angle on design and my place in this field. There were more critiques and some were great and others sucked as much as that one in the beginning. There have been enough small hints along the way that have kept me engaged in my daily work.
I want to get to the place where it is not praise (or lack of it) that keeps me going.
Three times a week for two months, until my father was out of words, and announced he was finished. One more session, this time just my mother and me. The kindly doctor kept asking me questions and I kept trying to answer. Interrupted every time, to be accused of lying about my very feelings.
The end of the hour, after 58 minutes of emotional beatings, my mother began to cry, and, unprompted, said, "She's such a good writer. So talented. So talented and so smart it scares me to death."
The doctor looked at me again, seeking affirmation. I nodded, very gently, then fixed my gaze on my shoes. I never knew she noticed. She's never said anything like that since.
Everything I am is "after." What happened was... I lost my voice. For one split second in my kaleidoscopic life, my mother was something like proud of me, awed by me. I don't have a frame of reference for this. I don't know how to live up to it.
It sucks, it hurts, and it still makes me cringe nearly 20 years later. But it happened. I can't take it back, there is no delete button on life. So onwards I press.
My first job out of college was at a weekly newspaper, one of those edgy, independent papers that try to take down city government at every turn.
I was hired as the office manager, and after months of licking envelopes, convinced the jackass, pompous, young editor to let me "help out" with copyediting.
I did an awesome job. Convinced them they needed a managing editor, because no one was managing the workflow and it was killing the art director.
So in a year, I went from office manager to managing editor. Feeling pretty good, except ... at every editorial meeting, every meeting I had was laughed -- literally, laughed -- off the table. The editor, the reporters, all young men, all making fun of me, the little girl with big boobs.
Then he tried to kiss me, after following me to the copy machine in the basement.
Then he let me have an assignment -- a book review column in a special back-to-school insert.
I worked on those reviews so earnestly, hour after hour, pouring every once of my English major-y vocabulary onto the page. I turned them in, and a few hours later the editor walked by, waving my reviews around in layout, and said, "Oh, look. Here are Amy's little book reviews."
Little. Little. little little little.
Diminished. (Not to mention sexually harassed.)
I left a few months later, and went on to a pretty successful career as an editor and copywriter. But I've watched that editor go on to publish several books, and I still feel so small in comparison.
See? Little.
Then I decided that I should stop saying and planning my book, but just write it. so I decided that this year I would write a book. And every time I feel discouraged I remind myself that I said I'd write a book. not a great book, not even a good book, I just have to write a book to keep my promise. so that led to the blog, and although I am terribly private and don't really understand why I expose myself like that, I so enjoy it, so I don't try to understand it, i just do it.
I'm still new at this. And the whole blog/twitter world is odd. but am learning, and every now and then I bump into little jewels, like this blog.
"You don't have a portfolio" were her cutting words, before she turned on her heel and left. Sadly, our relationship has never been the same since.
I make about $3 K a year from writing bits and pieces -- but I don't have a portfolio??! It still hurts...
However, I have always wanted to write a book but haven't done it yet... guess the Great Canadian Prairie Novel is still waiting to be written....
Denise in Saskatchewan