Downith asked what motivated us. It seems that we are all motivated by fear, but I discovered as I tried to decide how to respond that I was also motivated by ambition. This isn’t a surprise to me; after all, I swore I would have a book by the time I was 35 (er, I didn’t). I went and got an MFA so that I could publish.
I don’t think this is either yucky or selling out. I’ve worked in the publishing industry and know well that books are often a collaboration between author and editor. I have never been Emily Dickinson (who, by the way, also sent her poems out to be critiqued), one who wants to self-publish. I think the “purity” of one’s own writing is bullshit. I believe in editing. I believe that some rough edges should stay while others should go. I believe that the last stage of writing is editing, at least a little, for audience.
Lionel Shriver talks about women and ambition. It sounds like a dirty word to some of us. But why are we doing this if we don’t want our work to see the light of day? I’m as uncomfortable marketing myself as the next introverted former English major, but will I do it in order to get this book that I’m working on to sell? Yes, yes I will. Will I feel guilty about it? Hell no.
I want my beta readers to tell me when I’m getting away with shit. I want them to tell me I’m full of hot air. I want them to tell me where I’m humming like a turbo jet. I want them to tell me how badly I’m fucking up. I want them to tell me when I hit it out of the park. Because I want this book to leave my computer. I want it to be a trade paperback. I want to beg for blurbs. I want to read at my former bookstore. I want to read at my former grad school. I want it to be on a pile on the front table of independent bookstores. I want Sarah W.’s dad to read it for Christmas. I want to make my sisters cry. I want the bookseller to place it in a reader’s hand and say “You’ll love it.”
What do you want?
I want a cult. A small, rabid cult of readers who think I’m the fucking business, who pass my books under the table in a seedy restaurant and whisper, Oh my god, you HAVE to read this. I want fan mail made of cut-out letters. I want 19-year-old French students to make a black-and-white film noir based on my story, with cigarettes and chicken’s blood. I want subversion. A big crowd would ruin the vibe, but to be honest I don’t think it’s a concern. If anyone gets this book at all it will be a miracle—and probably a poor testament to our culture, which I am as ever happy to besmirch.
Sold.
Same here.
I want fudge. I thought someone was supposed to drop by? Okay, seriously, I want to finish the fucker. And yeah, I’d like it to be published and be read and liked, if only by a few. Anything else is gravy.
Here’s wishing you get all you want Indy.
Interesting commentary by Lionel Shriver by the way. (I didn’t check the date and at first was way confused) and very impressive use of Britishisms for a non-native. Maybe I will pick up an accent someday.
Today? Today I want to never write about myself ever ever again. I’m dying for a story where I can just make shit up and see if it works.
I want to hand my Dad a bound book with a publishing house imprint symbol on the spine and my author photo on the inside back cover and say, “Look, Dad—you were right. I can do this.”
Sounds awfully good to me. Healthy, clear. I want the same thing of course.
Welcome, RS.
I hope you’re happy with your editor ’cause it’s clear you’re the bomb in that department. Let me know if you ever need a beta. I come with recommendations.
I want a robotic cleaning person.
I had the glorious experience of being edited for an essay over the summer. And, while there were some small things I disagreed with, the journal editor called me out on every single bit of my bullshit. It was awesome.
I always need betas, so you might be sorry you asked. Thank you and back ‘atcha. (And I’m only cranky when you’re living with me or when I think the other person will find it funny/helpful/entertaining/blogworthy. Ahem.)