9

DON’T TAKE DIRECTIONS FROM ANYONE UNLESS THEY HAVE BEEN THERE

I have ten commandments for life. The first one is: never ask anyone how to get somewhere unless they have been there.

The others are:

2.Nothing is ever as good or as bad as you think it will be.

3.When you don’t know what to do, do anything.

4.If it’s not useful, beautiful or valuable, get rid of it.

5.The only opinion that matters is your opinion of yourself.

6.Great people do things, mediocre people talk about doing things, small people bag other people who are doing things.

7.Choose the subjects, courses, hobbies and passions you like and your life will follow.

8.Everything sucks til it’s finished.

9.80% done is done.

10.You won’t know what it is until you are finished.

But back to the first commandment … There are a whole lot of people out there who are gagging to give you directions to a place they have never been. These people are so confident, so certain. They sound like they know what they’re talking about. They are convincing because they believe themselves.

I bet you’ve come across numerous taxi drivers, annoying uncles, frustrated teachers, failed and envious creatives, busy-body know-it-alls and has-beens-that-never-were who have plenty of advice about what you should be doing with your writing. People telling you about a famous writer’s routine, how a certain genre is where to get rich quick, or how you should write on subjects that are conveniently their pet topic. How someone’s already written whatever it is you are writing. Or how you should do something else because the arse has fallen out of the publishing/newspaper/entertainment industry. You know the people I’m talking about. They’re easy to spot: they’re the people who have no runs on the board. No writing career, no agent, no body of work, no published work. Yet they have the right advice for you! And everyone. On everything. The less they know about a subject or area, the firmer and more confident their advice.

When I receive this kind of unsolicited writing advice from someone, I ask them when their next book is due to be released. What their income in royalties was for the previous year. Who their editor is. Their publisher.

Want advice? Ask someone who has done the thing you want to do. Find someone who has been to the place you want to go and ask how they got there. And even then, even if they give you advice, you don’t have to take it. It’s advice. Not an order or a judgement set in stone.

There’s no shortage of people trying to convince others that creative work requires more talent than it really does. The ‘you need to be born with the talent’ people use this argument to let themselves off the hook and then to discourage others from proving them wrong by exposing their bullshit. If you work hard and achieve your goals, the ‘you need to be born with the talent’ people say, ‘Ah, you have talent, you see.’ And perhaps they are right: the ‘talent’ is to know it’s not talent that matters, but commitment, effort, application, persistence and working hard.

Billy Marshall Stoneking is an Australian-American poet, playwright, filmmaker and teacher. Ask him. He’s been there, and this is what he reckons:

Back in the early 80s, when I was an eager young poet applying for a place in the screenwriting course at the Australian national film school, I was told by almost everyone I knew that the competition was maddening, and that I might well be competing against hundreds of talented storytellers for one of only four places in the screenwriting course. In fact, the standards were so impossibly high one’s admission to the course was a long shot at best.

Several years later, after completing the course and working pretty regularly as a freelance writer in both film and television, I was invited to be a reader of applications for the school’s writing department. As I read through one application after another I began to wonder why the competition didn’t appear to be as maddening as I had once been told. Could it be that the standards had fallen?

Fifteen years later, working as a full-time lecturer in the very same film school, I had the opportunity to read through the writing department applications every year for seven years. What I discovered astounded me. There was no competition at all. The writers that had something to say, that had stories to tell and some passion for telling them, were the exception. You could count them on less fingers than one finds on a typical human hand. What was maddening wasn’t the quantity of the good work, but how lacking the rest of it was. For those that were inspired, confident and had something to say that they genuinely cared about, there was nothing and no-one to compete with, other than the last thing they’d written.

But if you insist on seeing writing as a contest, go ahead. Your only challengers will be mediocrities, and if you win, you lose.

It takes far less to get to the place you want to get to than you think. Turn up. Have a stab.

*

As a general rule, I’m against feedback. I know. It’s an unfashionable opinion. But if your voice is not strong, your project not solid or the feedback is coming from someone you consider an ‘expert’, feedback can pull you off track. And the earlier in the writing process it’s given, the less constructive the feedback. Because the work isn’t finished yet. The further you get through it, the more you’ll know what the story is and how to tell it.

Our society is feedback-mad. Performance review? Fuck off. I’ll review myself, thanks. I ran a writing class recently and the organiser emailed me a few days later asking for my address to send me the assessment forms the students had completed. ‘Fabulous feedback! 100% positive!’ she said. I replied: ‘Thanks so much, but I have no interest in feedback. I have very high standards for myself and it’s only my own opinion I care about.’ And no, I did not preface my response with ‘don’t take this the wrong way’. You can’t control how people will take things. So many times, people use ‘no offence, but’ as a licence or caveat to say mean, unhelpful or passive-aggressive things.

I am absolutely against unsolicited feedback. If you hear someone saying ‘I’m just giving feedback’, ‘It’s just constructive criticism’ or ‘I hope you don’t mind me saying’, run away screaming. Or just vague out. While they are talking, nod your head and fantasise about where you are going to bury their body.

People regularly ask me for feedback. They contact me and gush about what a huge fan of mine they are, how they follow me on Twitter, Instagram and Facebook, and spot me on my bike around Melbourne. ‘Anyway,’ they say, ‘I’ve just written the first ten chapters of a book and I was wondering if I could send it to you for a bit of feedback.’ This is how I want to respond:

So. You’re a huge fan and follow me on social media – you must know I'm a flat-knacker single mum and freelancer with a mortgage and bills to pay who has written extensively on not working for free. You also must have picked up that I am dyslexic and because of that a very, very slow reader. So slow it’s faster for me to write a book than read one. And yet you want me, in my spare time, to read your ten chapters. You do realise I run the Gunnas Writing Masterclasses purely and simply so I have somewhere to direct people like you? Don’t you? DON’T YOU? If I read everyone’s first ten chapters I’d do nothing else.

This is how I actually respond:

This writing is brilliant! You are a clever cookie! I can’t wait to read the rest of this! Just. Keep. Going.

Yep. Every time. I don’t read what they’ve written. I just send that response back to them a few days after they send me their writing. The sender is delighted. I’m off the hook. Win–win.

People don’t want feedback. They want you to tell them they are brilliant and to keep going. That’s all they ever want.

You know what? Today I was feeling a bit flat about this book. I have been thrashing away at 2000 words a day and I’m about a quarter of the way through. I have no contract, editor or deadline. I thought about polishing up the first five chapters and sending it to a few close mates. But I knew it was just so they would say, ‘This writing is brilliant! You are a clever cookie! I can’t wait to read the rest of this! Just. Keep. Going.’ Winston Churchill’s saying came into my head: ‘If you’re going through hell, keep going.’ I wasn’t in hell; it had just been a day of slow grind. ‘Just. Keep. Going,’ I told myself. I also thought about how much better the chapters would be at the end of the second draft. A bit of delayed gratification. I said to myself, ‘Get to the end of the second draft and then you can send stuff to people so they can blow smoke up your arse.’

Naturally, writers enjoy receiving positive responses and reactions, whether to the work itself or just to the fact that they have done the work. Those responses can be sought externally (from others) or internally (from yourself). If you disengage from the convenience of social media feedback – likes, shares or retweets – you will start to seek feedback internally and learn how to give it to yourself. You will be writing away and think, ‘Hey, great sentence’. Or, ‘One hour and no Facebook! Good for you.’ ‘Well, you sorted that tricky bit out faster than I thought you would! Gold star for you.’ Writing is a process of responding and reacting to your own thoughts. Interacting with an external source such as social media can dilute your impetus to write.

In The Artist’s Way, Julia Cameron suggests a ban on reading to get you writing. This makes total sense. Writers love to play with words. They are drawn to constant interaction with them. If you keep that interaction internal, you’ll get more done.

Most writers get easily distracted by the fast-feedback response/reaction loop of social media. It’s kind of like crack cocaine. It can make you feel sated for a short period of time, but never satisfied. The social media loop is similar to the internal dialogue you have with yourself when you are writing, but the difference is that when you rely on the internal dialogue it’s like you’re on solar – you’re off the grid. You are supplying your own needs. You have an idea, you write it down and the reaction or response comes from yourself. You question, provoke and flatter yourself. When you rely on external feedback for responses, at best you dilute your writing process, at worst you abandon it.

Social media often makes you feel like you’re writing, but you’re not. Comment threads are not writing – they are a typed conversation. Sometimes a discussion on a thread can be a great creative enema. It can help give you ideas or flesh out your thoughts – that’s terrific, but it’s not writing. It’s a bit like the difference between going to a cocktail party and grazing on hors d’oeuvres while standing, chatting and scoffing free booze, and sitting down at a table and eating a decent meal. If you eat consciously at a set time, you know when you started, when you finished and what you ate. If you just graze unconsciously, you aren’t in control. Sometimes I find myself writing a Facebook post and it starts getting longer and longer. So I’ll decide not to post it – I copy it into a Word document, work it into a decent-sized column and post it on my website.

Neurons that fire together, wire together. If you keep going back to social media or hanging around in comments sections, your monkey mind will keep on sending you back there for rewards.

If you need to turn off social media to get your writing done, do so. Use it as a reward once you’re done.

*

Don’t ask your mates for feedback. When you give someone your work to read, you don’t know what will motivate their response. It may not be their genre or their cup of tea. They may not actually read it. They may be envious because you are so excellent at writing. Or furious that you pulled your finger out when they haven’t. They may be one of those people who feel being critical makes them appear smart. They may not understand it.

One of my Gunnas, Tanya, told me she had stopped writing after giving her first 6000 words to a woman who was ‘supposedly a writer’ to read. Let me explain. This woman had had one letter published in the local paper ten years ago and she carried a laminated copy of it around in her bag. Tanya told me: ‘I gave her my writing and I waited for weeks and she didn’t say anything. Eventually I asked her what she thought of it and she said, “Oh, was I supposed to give you feedback?” ’ I don’t know what else was communicated in that exchange, but Tanya stopped writing for ten years. Keep in mind that 70% of communication is nonverbal. Tanya interpreted her mate’s lack of inaction, paired with some strong body language, as a negative response to her work. My guess? For some reason, Tanya saw this woman as an expert and was hoping for a bit of encouragement from someone she considered accomplished, or at the very least a little further along the road than she was. She just wanted someone to say, ‘It’s brilliant, you’re a genius, keep writing.’ Maybe she also considered her mate one of those people who is withholding with praise, the kind of person people always value praise from simply because the rarity of it suggests the value of it. The kind of ‘praise from the master’ syndrome. I reckon the woman she asked was just a bit of an arsehole. A withholding, envious arsehole. She probably read what Tracey wrote and was furious because she felt like she ‘owned’ writing.

When you find yourself longing for feedback, remember: you probably just want someone to say, ‘It’s brilliant, you’re a genius: just keep going.’ Tell yourself that instead.

*

Be careful about seeking approval from others. A lot of the people you yearn for approval from are dickheads. They either know nothing about writing, bugger all about the particular writing you do or are just mean, withholding arseholes who have everyone dancing around them hoping for a precious crumb of their rare approval. These people are not experts on anything. They are not accomplished in any way other than setting up this bizarre situation where people crave their approval despite them having no expertise.

And don’t go seeking approval from institutions such as universities either. I had a gorgeous Gunna. Harriet. About twenty-six and just sublime. But so desperately unhappy. She said ‘I have finished a creative writing degree and I can’t remember why I wanted to write. I think the degree drove my desire out of me.’ Oh, how it punctured my heart. I had heard this many, many times. These young people full of passion and desire having their fire stamped out of them by institutions.

Some people seem addicted to going to writing workshops, courses and classes. But the more of these they attend, the less writing they seem to do at home. Some people have confided in me that they love writing and the feeling of having written but they only seem to be able to write when they are in a room and someone is watching them. This is the result of school institutionalising writing and creativity. Making people do it because they have to has had terrible consequences. Creative writing should be kept as far away from schools and institutions as possible.

If you really want to write, don’t enrol in a creative writing degree, whatever you do. There is no more certain way of stopping writing. If you don’t have anything to write about, go do something worth reading about. Work in a sex shop. Visit your old school. Chase up that guy who bullied you. Learn to crochet. Get a tattoo. Volunteer at a soup van. Stay off social media for three months. But don’t do a course.

*

Do not seek detailed constructive feedback until you have reviewed and revised your work. Ideally, you’d get this kind of feedback at the end of the Down Draft – your rough first draft. Anne Lamott says writing can be broken into the Down Draft, the Up Draft and the Dental Draft.

Down Draft – Just get it down. Don’t stop. Don’t look back. Write like you’re on fire and you’ll be dead this time next week.

Up Draft – Fix it up. Review the structure and modify if you need to. Polish phrasing. Proofread. Check spelling.

Dental Draft – Go through it like a dentist goes through your teeth, checking every one thoroughly. Is it loose? Does it need filling, removing, patching up or replacing with something new? You don’t have to do this draft. You can pay an editor to do it. Many of the skills needed to do an excellent Dental Draft are editing skills not writing skills.

Don’t get any form of professional feedback until you have finished your Down Draft, or are well on the way to finished. By then, you will know what your piece is and how you want to tell the story. You will be able to judge which ideas to take on (or not) and you will know what’s best for your project.

When you are at that point, use a professional. Get an editor. How do you do that? Your best bet in Australia is to go to an organised body like the Institute of Professional Editors or the Freelance Editors’ Network. Or you can try seeking a manuscript assessment from a professional through a writers guild or writers’ centre. Find someone who specialises in your genre, someone who is a good ‘all rounder’ or someone you click with. Your editor needs to be a good fit. Don’t be afraid to change if you are working with one who doesn’t seem right. Finding a good editor is a little like finding a good shrink; it may take a few tries to find the perfect fit for you and your project.

The word ‘editor’ conjures up images of a grumpy newspaperman with a big red pen. The cliché could not be further from the truth. I have learnt more from editors than anyone. They are the excellent set of fresh eyes you need. If you ask for a structural edit, they will look at your messed-up pile of muddle and help identify what it is, what needs cutting, what needs pasting, what needs swapping. It’s important to be very clear about what you are asking for and why. Sit down with the editor and discuss where you’re at, what you’re after and what they offer and would suggest. They will tell you what needs fleshing out and what needs peeling back, and may make brilliant suggestions that will help a piece sing. Editors help you take your work to the next level.

An editor can also double as a writing coach. Having regular deadlines with them and paying for their services may be just what you need to help you ‘prioritise’.

You may not need to pay an editor. You may know someone who you really trust to offer an objective, constructive eye. You’ll know you’ve found the right person when they comment on your work and your reaction is, ‘Good point, that’s right, that makes sense.’ I know I said I was against feedback and to use a professional – but if you know the traps to avoid, you may be able to identify someone in your circle who is encouraging, who gets you, understands the project and is able to give helpful feedback that is not about you, or them, but the work itself.

I have a writing partner, Daniel Burt. He’s a comedian, columnist and joke writer. He and I have worked together for close to ten years. We ‘get’ each other and each other’s writing voices. When I am doing something big like a one-woman show or a book, I ask for his feedback.

Remember: you don’t have to take people’s advice. They may be wrong.

When you are confident in your own voice as a writer and when you have bonded enough with your project to know what it is, it’s great when someone gives you feedback you know won’t work. It makes you fight for your work. It makes you certain. And it makes you sure of what’s right. You don’t have to ditch or change something simply because someone has suggested you do so.

A good writing partner, editor or beta reader doesn’t need you to take their advice. If you are showing your work to someone who gets shitty when you don’t take their suggestions on board, don’t work with them. They don’t get it. It should never be about whose idea is the best or right on, it should be about making the work sparkle.

*

Knowing what the process is and accepting it doesn’t make it less annoying. You just know it’s normal. Accept that the annoying desire to want feedback is part of the process, but be wary of any feedback you get. Remember that your work is not finished. People are giving you feedback on an omelette mix, not an omelette. And the person giving you feedback may not even like omelettes!

And piss off those people who have no experience but who start every sentence with ‘If I were you …’