“A long apprenticeship is the most logical way to success. The only alternative is overnight stardom, but I can’t give you a formula for that.”
—CHET ATKINS
Please believe that my feet are firmly planted on the earth when I tell you the following, because I have seen the evidence: Everything you do for your writing practice counts toward future success. Every single bit. Every free gig, volunteer effort, labor of love, writing conference, or great idea that didn’t fully pan out; all the hours and materials you donate; those paid, but especially those unpaid, events; every person you help or take advice from—all of it flows into the well of your success.
In fact, I hope you will begin, from here on out, to chart, count, take note of, and express joy and gratitude for all the opportunities you get to deepen your writing practice, because your practice is essential. It is the bedrock to any writing “career” you hope to have. It will feed you through all the low, dark, uncertain times, and it will always, always be there for you. But it needs your full commitment.
A writing practice is built on more than just writing. Doing the writing is the foundation, of course, but there are so many more avenues that add depth, merit, credentials, experience, collaboration, and inspiration to your practice. These connections form a web, and you never know when one strand of the web will connect you to another in a way that makes all the difference.
I’ve peppered this book with the word apprenticeship, and this chapter is an ideal place to explore it further. The origins of apprenticeship can be traced back to the beginning of human history. Before schools and universities, long before computers and the Internet, people learned a trade or a craft by working with a master. You probably didn’t earn much money, but by the end of your time of diligent hard work, you had a skill that could be used to make a living.
This same spirit was popular among visual artists, and it’s how young, budding painters and sculptors learned the art.
I believe in a more modern version of apprenticeship to your craft of writing: That is, you learn it by doing it, by reading, by taking courses with talented writers, and by analyzing and practicing the very art you wish to excel at. Practicing is a skill we see so little of in this day of digital publishing and instant gratification, and one that should be a staple in your writer’s tool belt. Want to write great novels? Read them, and practice writing them.
Therefore, practice is at the root of what I mean by “consider no effort wasted.” Every trial, every experiment, every page of prose you set down is part of your apprenticeship to the craft that will bolster you throughout your life, if you tend it.
Below is a list. On a separate sheet of paper or on your computer, write down each of the items on this list that you have participated in or accomplished. And if you’ve done other items, add them, too.
Some of the items you’ve listed have already borne fruit in your life. Maybe the newsletter you wrote for your son’s school led to a paid gig for an organization that needs a newsletter. Maybe someone you met in that quirky lady’s living room–based poetry workshop has gone on to be your best critique partner. Maybe that person you exchanged quips with at lunch at the writers conference turned out to be an agent who asked to see your work.
Many of these avenues haven’t yet finished running their course or extending their usefulness in your life. If you stop taking your writing practice seriously, if you keep your work or yourself hidden, you may never know where they’ll lead. If, on the other hand, you trust that these volunteer efforts, these opportunities to speak, teach, read, listen, and write, will eventually come to fruition, you’ll be on the right track to building a lasting writing practice.
It’s easy to be fooled into thinking there’s a magic program, a specific path that only others know about, or a unique but mysterious road that you should take with a set number of steps to reach your dreams.
Nonsense. You decide when. You decided how.
You’re the only one with the ability to follow through on your dreams. Only you know what you value, what you’re willing to risk, and what your writing means to you.
Others may encourage you, support you, champion and cheerlead you, but they won’t do the work for you.
If things haven’t been going your way, or you can’t see the fruit of your hard work yet, you may become convinced that you have bad luck, or that the odds are stacked against you, or that you’re not talented enough. David Bayles and Ted Orland, the authors of one of my favorite books, Art & Fear, make the case that “talent may get someone off the starting blocks faster, but without a sense of direction or a goal to strive for, it won’t count for much. The world is filled with people who were given great natural gifts, sometimes conspicuously flashy gifts, yet never produce anything.”
You change your luck, your lot, and your odds simply by deciding to change them. That’s the best way I can explain what motivates any major effort or change in my life, from adding in exercise to releasing my writing into the world.
After I made a change and started taking myself seriously, friends and colleagues asked, “Why did you start now?” There’s rarely any magic in it: You just say, “Today is the day to take myself more seriously.” This enterprising spirit is from the “fake it ’til you make it” school of success that I have long adhered to, otherwise known as the “What have I got to lose by trying?” spirit of taking chances.
I’ve spoken before about my own struggles with balancing my writing practice with the other demands of life. After my son was born, I found myself sleep deprived and drained of my former prolific energy to work my butt off. Thus I experienced the illusion that doors had closed to me. That writing had dried up. That work flow had ceased. Actually I was the only one to shut any doors. I ran out of energy to give to those endeavors because I was a shell-shocked, first-time mom struggling to raise a baby. Well, that baby is now a somewhat independent little boy and only child. His independence has freed up energy that had burrowed underground.
As I spun closer to my most recent birthday in August, the question arose in my mind: Why not take my writing career more seriously? I had always imagined my Big Dreams coming true by the time I was thirty. And while several of those dreams were realized, my thirties have been a decade of steep learning curves and countless opportunities that have taught me that loving the journey is crucial to any success.
This birthday, I listened to the whispering voice inside me that said, “Go spend the day with yourself. Listen to what comes up.” Rather than having lunch with friends or my husband, I took myself to the Mount Madonna Retreat Center, a beautiful pastoral center overlooking the Santa Cruz Mountains. I spent the day writing, meditating, and walking through the forested grounds.
The frustrated voice in my head that had been telling me doors were closed and opportunities were lost suddenly gave way to a softer voice I could hear only when I became very quiet. It said: “Now is the time to turn your writing career around. Today is the day to start.” And since that day I listened to the quiet voice of confidence, I’ve sold two books, and I’ve been published in The New York Times, The Washington Post, and other publications I’ve coveted for years, like The Rumpus and Brain, Child.
No one will do it for you, and while in some ways that may seem a scary enterprise, the truth is, we are made to give ourselves over to creative work and to keep at it. Our brains are “plastic,” capable of continual reshaping and rewiring through new experiences and activities, both of which are necessary to ingenuity and creative thinking.
No effort you make toward your writing practice is wasted. That day at the retreat center, I reminded myself of this fact and reached for reasons why it was all worth it: because I find value in my writing life; because I want to show my son what it looks like to commit, stick with, and rise above what’s hard; and because I’ve invested too much of myself for too long to not keep giving it everything.
I opened the door a crack, and all manner of surprising, exciting, new big career opportunities came barreling through.
Now again—this was not magic.
These opportunities arose from all of the seeds I’d planted, some recent, some ages ago. I followed up on connections I’d let flounder. I finished ideas I’d left undone. I collaborated. I took some chances. Most of all, I just said, “Today is as good a day as any.”
I also looked back on the twenty years that I have been actively pursuing a writing life and building a writing practice and I saw:
No effort was wasted.
And the biggest marker of my success? Learning to love the journey.
Do something for your writing life today. It will count. I promise.
Brainstorm a list of all the unpaid, unseen, unrewarded hours you’ve invested in projects, people, and writing. These may be things that haven’t “paid off” in your mind. When you’re finished, look objectively at each item on the list. See if you can’t come up with one “gift” each item on that list has given you. Even if the “gift” is something like “It made me realize I never want to do that for a living.” or “I learned to get back up after a fall.” Reward yourself for your hard work with chocolate, a movie, or something that makes you feel good.
This is the only place in the book where I’m going to suggest you multitask. Take a walk and bring with you any handheld device that is capable of recording. (In this day and age, just about every phone has this capacity, and digital recorders are cheap—and a handy device for a writer to have.) As you walk, use the recording device to “write” aloud. That’s right—see what happens when you combine your musings with movement. You might find it’s a good way to brainstorm and that you can do this when you need a break from the computer but not your work, while still getting in some crucial exercise.
If you really want to go the distance, look into a mobile workstation, such as a treadmill desk, which combines a tiny amount of movement with standing and working, and is much kinder to the body than sitting.
Or, if you’re into the spin bike—a stationary exercise bike—consider using that time to revise something. One of my best friends, who does a lot of local theater, learns her lines while riding the spin bike.
by Jennifer Haupt, Psychology Today blogger at One True Thing and author of Will You Be My Mother?
During my twenty-five years as a working writer, I have cranked out brochures about widgets and portals, gone to Haiti and Africa on assignment, spent eight years and counting on a novel that may never be published, been pulled over for speeding while cursing out Oprah’s magazine for killing my Haiti story, sold book proposals and buried a few in the bottom desk drawer marked “graveyard”…
Well, you get the picture.
Every one of these projects has been, if not strategic, at least a part of some broader plan. Marketing writing during Seattle’s tech boom helped to fund my trip to Rwanda, where I found the core of my novel. Writing fiction has made me a more skilled and creative nonfiction writer. The Haiti story that never made it into O, The Oprah Magazine because there was no happy ending has served as a piece of a larger creative nonfiction book project with Shebooks.
It’s the big picture that matters.
I’ve learned, over the years, to look at every opportunity as a piece of the whole. It’s not just about the money but about how a book project, a magazine assignment, or a trip where I may not even find a story to sell fits into the vision I have for my writing life.
Funny thing about that creative nonfiction book I’m now joyfully working on: I found the bones of it in the bottom drawer graveyard. I just needed to do some more living—and writing—to bring it to life.