A few years ago, back when I was a cubicle dweller, I had the privilege of representing my publishing house at a local writers’ conference. I stocked up on Altoids (licorice, because that’s just how I rolled back then), made sure there was a pitcher of water nearby, sat down at my table and awaited the first of twelve victims…um…I mean hopeful authors.
I’m far from a conference expert, but my limited experience has taught me that the one-to-one meetings with unpublished authors can be endurance tests for both the editor and the writer. The editor, though hopeful to find that rarest of creatures – a writer with more talent than even she knows – instead usually finds himself queuing up “not for us” and “needs work” sentences that will temporarily destroy the writer’s dreams no matter how politely they’re delivered. Meanwhile, the writer sits on the edge of her chair (literally and figuratively) listening for words like “promise” and “potential” while attempting to excuse other words like “not for us” and “needs work” as evidence of the editor’s obvious inability to identify great writing.
Every once in a while, that rare creature does appear and the editor (and author) both walk away from the conference giddy and hopeful.
But this isn’t a post about that sort of rare creature. It’s about another kind.
The writer who hasn’t learned to listen.
She sat down at my table just before noon, her navy blue three-ring binder held tight to her chest like a child she might accidentally suffocate. She presented it to me and began to explain why her novel about an angel who saves a man from suicide was probably the best novel ever written about an angel who saves a man from suicide. “Lots of people have said so,” she added, then started to describe the plot while I tried to read the sample chapter in front of me.
It was not good. And by “not good” I mean “bad.” The writing was amateurish, the plot (or what I could determine of the plot) was somehow both meandering and predictable, and the dialogue was just this side of awful. I can’t remember the specifics (thankfully), but I do recall the feeling I experienced while reading. So in an attempt to share that feeling with you, I present this completely fabricated excerpt:
* * *
“I am going to jump off of this bridge,” Simon yelled. He was standing on the edge of the gray metal bridge that was also rusty and at least fifty feet above the water below that was rushing by like a rushing river.
Just then, a bright light came on on the opposite side of the bridge except there wasn’t a lamp post there so it couldn’t be a light. Could it be an angel? Yes it was!!!
“Do not jump!” said the angel. “I am here to save you!”
“I do not want to be saved,” said Simon. “I want to kill myself.”
“Why?” said the Angel.
“Because my wife left me and I drink too much alcohol and take drugs and say curse words and look at porn.”
“Those are very bad things, but that does not mean that you should kill yourself.”
“Why not?”
“Because life is worth living!”
“Not mine.”
“Even yours.”
The bright light that was actually an angel moved closer to him and reached out her hands (she was a girl angel) to him. When she got close enough to touch him, he grabbed her hands…and threw her over the bridge.
* * *
Okay, that last part wasn’t in the story. I wish it had been, then I would have had something encouraging to say about “out of the box thinking.”
Instead, I gave her some of my best (and most polite) “not for us” and “needs work” sentences. I didn’t want to discourage her desire to write, but believed I would be doing her a service if I gently lowered her expectations about being published through traditional methods.
She stared at me with open-mouthed horror, as if I’d just said aliens kidnapped her dog and impregnated her husband.
This is when I made my fatal mistake: I decided to fill the awkward silence with helpful editorial advice.
Oops.
She had a ready excuse for everything I offered. It was essentially the same excuse, whether I was offering tips on dialogue or character or plot.
“You’re wrong,” she said.
I was glad when the next appointment walked into the room, but she wasn’t quite ready to leave. She kept saying over and over “everyone I know loves this story” while I refrained from explaining they were probably high at the time. Or just trying to be polite. Probably high. Finally, she left.
Later that day, I thought about what had happened. She obviously believed she was meant to be an author. And she was certain everyone else would agree with her. But she had made a critical error: she hadn’t learned how to listen.
Listening, like writing, is an art. You can always tell a writer who’s mastered the art of listening by the way the prose leaps off the page. A writer who knows how to listen is someone who studies the experts – the great writers and the great writing teachers – and learns from them all. She is someone who knows how to get past the sudden stab of feeling like a failure to find wisdom in the criticism of others.
And perhaps most importantly, she is someone who, long before putting a single word on the page, learns how to listen to the world around her. She learns about three-dimensional characters and realistic dialogue from listening to family, friends, strangers in a coffee shop. She learns about the power of silence by being silent herself. She learns about pacing and rhythm and tension and conflict from observing real life circumstances. She is someone who can be simultaneously engaged in a moment and pondering it. She doesn’t apply everything she discovers to her own writing, but she gives it all plenty of room to breathe before she decides what to use and what to discard.
Like the woman at my table, she too holds tight to her manuscript, but unlike her, this is not because she believes hers is a perfect child. The writer who has learned to listen holds tight to her manuscript because it is a mystery; a strong-willed puzzle of questions and answers and possibilities.
When she hands her manuscript to an editor, she gives him the result of good listening.
And then when he speaks, she listens some more.
Comments
18 responses to “Listening Room”
“the water below that was rushing by like a river”. Ha! I love your ability to mimic bad writing—it makes your actual writing even more impressive.
I know a girl who tries to finish every sentence of whoever she is speaking with (or at), as if there is nothing new to be learned, nothing that could surprise her, and she just wants to speed it all up and get it over with. Everything else about this girl is lovely except this annoying trait, and it makes me sad, because she misses out on so much. She gets it wrong a lot of the time, but because she isn’t listening, she’ll never know.
It’s hard to listen to criticism, but it’s the best gift we can receive as writers. Of course, we do have to weigh it against our intuition and other good advice, but I think if we really listen, it all becomes clear.
It sucks that girl didn’t hear you—you could have saved her from a lot more heartache.
P.S. I only love monkeys from afar—I love the idea of them more than the actual screeching, shitting mammal. But my son looks like a little monkey sometimes, and he’s pretty darn cute.
My ability to “mimic” bad writing is proof that I’ve discovered time travel. I just go back a couple decades and write the best I possibly can, then bring it to now and, voila, bad writing.
“He was standing on the edge of the gray metal bridge that was also rusty and at least fifty feet above the water below that was rushing by like a rushing river.”
50 points. I’m pretty much in love with that sentence.
My favorite bad sentences written by authors are sentences that use the same favorite words over and over again because they’re the author’s favorite words.
I can’t believe you didn’t like that sample chapter.
Dream Crusher!
“The bright light that was actually an angel moved closer to him and reached out her hands (she was a girl angel) to him.”
I’m a big fan of “that” and “actually”, actually.
Would you be surprised if I told you that the woman went on to become a hugely successful author? Yeah, me, too. She didn’t. But you were ready to “grrr” weren’t you.
Listening to criticism is difficult at the best of times, but you’re right. Authors who don’t listen run the risk of becoming one more bad self-pubbed author who can’t understand why the world doesn’t appreciate their genius.
I hated my editor’s emails but at the same time, I knew she had good advice to make my novel better. But I had to make judgment calls, too. The author who listens to every piece of critique and applies it is only slightly better than the author who listens to no critique.
You’re absolutely right. And a good editor will always encourage the author to challenge him on editorial suggestions or changes that don’t line up with the author’s intent or voice.
Actually I thought your sample was pretty good – at least compared to some of the things I have to read. And I don’t get to say, “it’s not quite what we’re looking for” – I have to edit the bloody stuff until its good enough to get a pass mark.
As a bad self-pubbed writer I know how hard it is to listen to advice – but only because no one is as good a writer as I.
😉
Seriously, though, you have my empathy. There should be a special dispensation for editors – all the chocolate you want with none of the consequent chubbiness. You guys deserve it.
I’ll take that special dispensation. Chocolate without chubbiness.
But I have to make one correction to your comment: I’ve read your words and you’re not a bad self-pubbed writer. I should know…no one is as good a judge of writing as I.
😉
I think I read some of this same writer’s work in a critique group I (briefly) belonged to — it was a story about magical horses that had beautiful flowing manes of rainbow silver and gold hair that was beautiful and flowing. I’m not kidding. Hence, my brief time there.
No-one likes to hear that they suck – or at least have sucky aspects to their writing – delivering that message in a way that doesn’t rip their heart out takes a special talent. I agree with Sarah (I usually do), all the chocolate (or Altoids — as an aside — for some reason, the name Altoid has always struck me as appropriate for a hemorrhoid remedy rather than something you eat) you want….or perhaps you’d prefer bacon without the clogged arteries?
I become deeply suspicious if people *only* say nice things about my writing….because they’ve obviously missed something. 🙂
Mmm…bacon. Yes, I’ll take the chocolate and the bacon. I recently learned just how nicely these two treats go together thanks to Kristin (she’s the commenter at the top of the page). She sent me a couple of chocolate/bacon candy bars because either a) she believes the special dispensation for editors is already in effect, or b) she wants me to be fat.
I like the fact that you refer to the writers as females. Did they only send the women to you? Did they send the men to a female editor? That’s not a bad concept, getting the POV from the opposite sex. Most of the books I read are written by men. I think it gives me insight into the male psyche. Or maybe I’m just weird.
I work with about the same number of male and female authors, but I don’t think that’s typical. In my experience, though female editors get to edit both female and male authors, male editors work more exclusively with male authors. I think this is because publishers fear male editors would add lots of gunplay and tobacco spitting to Amish romances and for some strange reason, they believe this is a bad thing.
This post is immaculate. Can I have a licorice Altoid?
Yes. You can have two.
Wonderful post, as always.
I grew up in the country and loved to go down certain gravel roads that had just the right dip followed by an abrupt hill. Dad always sped up so we’d catch some air on the hill, fly up off the back seat and squeal with delight over that swan dive feeling inside. It was just as fun thinking about it a quarter mile down the road.
I can count on you to floor it before those hills in your posts. ‘Great to really laugh aloud. And walk away pondering your insight with a smile.
What an absolutely lovely comment.
My dad knew of a road with a similar dip and we always pleaded with him to speed up as we approached it. He usually quoted the speed limit, then smiled as if to say “but just this once” before gunning the engine and giving us a rollercoaster ride.
I found a similar dip in town here in Colorado Springs. My younger son doesn’t have to ask. If I ease into the right lane, he knows. He just smiles – never telling other passengers who might be new to the game what’s about to occur – and enjoys the briefest moment of weightlessness.
He’s learning to drive now. I think I might have to play the “do as I say, not as I do…at least until you’re a much more skilled driver and have kids of your own who plead with you to speed up” card.