If you prick us, do we not write?
There’s no one reason why any of us start, or continue, writing, but I’d argue that most of the reasons we do reside at least somewhere in the suburbs of therapy. Journalling has many proven health benefits, making lists can help us feel like the world is that little bit more in order, and even when a larger writing project, such as a novel or a script, can feel like you’re chasing a perpetual horizon — particularly by the third or fourth draft — the old chestnut of hating writing but loving having written still applies and is the motivation to keep scribbling or typing, trying to get all the ideas out of our heads and in some semblance of order so that we can at least sleep at nights! To me, all of this suggests a desire to communicate, a humanity, a basic sense of warmth. In other words, I’d argue that those of us who start writing creatively rarely do so from financial motivation. Of course, there’ll be the odd person believing that they can puke up a novel in a week and become the next JK Rowling or Stephen King, but as we all know, those odd people rarely make it until Wednesday. (I should note, however, that there are exceptions: ex-Tory MP Jeffrey Archer claims to have written his first novel, Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less, in a last-ditch bid to avoid bankruptcy after losing his entire fortune in a fraudulent investment scheme. He has since sold 320 million books worldwide, so it can happen! Or at least it could to middle-class blokes in 1976). What happened to the dream? But unfortunately, for those of us who want to take it further and become published, perhaps even full-time authors, nothing douses the warm flame of writing faster than the cold realities of the professional publishing industry. For all of its cosy quirkiness, its cottage-industry kookiness, and its caring social conscience, it’s a thoroughly gatekept business, capitalist and concerned with the bottom line. It doesn’t matter how woolly the cardigans, ethically sourced the dungarees or unusually shaped the spectacles, literary agents and publishers, even radical ones, want work they can sell for money — and the more money the better. There may be honourable reasons why they want the money, but they still want it above all else. Likewise, you can pay £25-£50 to enter competitions where your very best work will get nowhere. You can submit things you’ve worked on for years to agents who often won’t even reply. This is not an industry where everyone gets a prize, or even noticed. It’s definitely not an industry where everyone gets published. Corporate sellout I’m not saying this because I’m bitter (I’ve been traditionally published twice) or think that I somehow know better (I don’t), nor am I saying it to put aspiring writers off; I’m writing it as a realistic reflection that anyone who wants to pursue a creative writing career, particularly as a novelist or poet, will at some point have to reconcile themselves with the fact that writing (if not all art) is an industry as cutthroat as any other corporate sector you can name. Some of us, and I include myself in this, can come to terms with it and are willing to slog away at draft after draft, taking rejection letter and rejection letter (and trust me, they still sting, even when the 100th one lands in your inbox) in the belief that someday, somehow, the warmth of our intentions will prevail. We’re also willing to accept that writing involves endless self-promotion (even though writers are often the most introverted creatures imaginable). Finally, we’re willing to put our work up for the inevitable criticism and misreadings that come with putting anything creative out into the world. I would argue that this is a vital step for all serious writers to take. I have a musician friend who, close to 40, still holds the same romantic notions of music he did as a teenager. He could have “made it” as a musician, and he had multiple opportunities to do so, but he ultimately couldn’t stomach the notion of music as “a business” and so walked away every time. I truly admire the sentiment, but I also note that he ended up doing equally business-like jobs that he didn’t particularly want to do. Would I rather keep the essential purity of my writing intact and stay pulling pints (as I did for 16 years), or would I be happier making some concessions to accessibility and having a greater chance of people actually reading what I write? It’s an age-old conversation, but it’s always one worth having, especially with yourself. The writing industry is a cold world for warm people, an unfeeling world for romantics… It’s everything that we as creative writers wanted to avoid in life, but realistically, if you want to write professionally, then the publishing industry is a bit like the mud in We’re Going on a Bear Hunt: you can’t go over or under it; you’ve got to go through it. All together now: Squelch, squerch, squelch, squerch…
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AuthorI'm a writer and editor from Birmingham. Nothing fancy about that! Archives
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