When I see/hear of/read about an injustice -- any injustice, large or small -- my first reaction is to overreact. I get angry and frustrated. I want to fix things. Smash things. Stab things.
And I often want to release all that pent-up frustration in a 20,000-word blog post.
But something special happens when we stop and let that frustration steep inside us a little longer. The intense urge to stab at the keyboard subsides, and logic and kindness come into the mix. When we allow that to happen, and we still feel the urge to blog about the topic, more people are inclined to listen.
I've thought about this a lot lately, having seen a few authors lash out online at reviewers recently. It's so obvious to everyone else that they've lashed out in anger and frustration. They jumped head first into an argument before opening themselves up to logic and kindness. They never gave the fog time to settle so they could see and speak clearly.
When we toss our ideas up online while we're amid that great hazy fog, people are less likely to listen, even if what we have to say is important and right.
When we speak kindly, we aren't giving up our passion about the subject (which is how I often feel in the heat of the moment), we're simply presenting our ideas in a more appealing way. Others are much more likely to get on board, to take our hand and join in our cause, when we're kind, compassionate, sure-footed, and able to see and acknowledge other sides of an argument.
Luckily for me, I have special friend ninjas who are willing to listen to me rant as I find my way through the fog. I know the world-wide-web isn't the place for that. Ranting is something I'll probably never be able to give up, but I know it's meant to be a private thing, shared with those who can understand my heat-of-the-moment gibberish.
And even if I could express my frustration in a clear and concise manner (like many others can), people aren't going to want to jump on board while I have my claws out.
Period.
It just makes us look bad. And scary. Like this:
I don't know about you, but I'd much rather be approachable online. I don't want to be known as that chick who gets up on a soapbox about everything, gets ticked off when someone doesn't read my FAQ, drags others through the mud because of some perceived slight, and so on.
Above all, be kind.
That goes for the Web too. Let that initial fog settle, wait for the sun, then step forth. Clarity is a powerful thing.
I don't know about you, but I'd rather join hands and fight injustice with this guy, because I know he's not going to rip me to shreds if we don't see eye-to-eye on every subject or detail.
I like to surround myself with happy cats. Cool cats. Deep, passionate thinkers who know how to control their claws. They wait for that fog to settle before making their statement, and they speak from the heart with logic and kindness.
That's who I want to be.
I want you to know I care about you, your thoughts, your opinions, your lifestyle. I care about it all. And if I make someone feel like they're stupid simply to satiate my own frustration, I hope I have a friend ninja nearby to bring it to my attention.
So I can make things right.
Because that's one of the foundational pillars, friends. Kindness, love, logic -- it leads to a better world.
"In 900 years of time and space, I’ve never met anyone who wasn’t important."
I've been thinking a lot about childhood memories lately. Specifically those moments in time when I knew I was born to be a writer.
Every artist has those moments.
It's like when we see childhood photos of American Idol contestants, each one holding a microphone and singing, or sitting with a guitar balanced precariously across their tiny toddler legs. I think a lot of us have photos like that. And some of us had parents who thought for sure we'd become music legends. Or Olympic swimmers. Or whatever it was we loved to do as kids.
It doesn't always mean we'll adopt those interests and turn them into careers, especially if you're a jack-of-all-trades like me.
I've had a lot of interests in my life, but after I master one, I move on to the next. I wasn't like those American Idol contestants, who have only ever wanted to do one thing in their life. I wanted to do it all.
Still do, but with one exception.
I can always look back and see telltale signs that writing was different. I knew I'd never be able to "master" writing and move on to something else. It would stick with me throughout it all. It would be that thread that ran through everything, tying my myriad of skills and interests all together.
I remember sitting in AP Algebra in high school, hiding a sheet of paper under my book and trying to sneak a few written words onto the page when my teacher wasn't looking. One time I dropped my book on the floor and the teacher got a glimpse of my writing. She called me out on it, furious I was scribbling words instead of numbers. Words did not belong in her class, so whatever I was writing must have been frivolous. Probably a note about a boy. Because we girls have nothing better to write about.
Well, in all honestly, it probably was about a boy, but he was a made up boy, a character from the depths of my imagination, one I'd conjured and created, and one who meant far more to me than that teacher (who always detested me) or those algebra equations. And he was probably doing something fabulous, like skipping AP Algebra to Save. The. World.
Not that I'd expect an algebra teacher to understand. And I'm not advocating writing fiction in lieu of paying attention in class! But I will always remember the way she called me out that day in front of everyone. How red my face must have been! Like I'd done something dirty and forbidden.
Instead of stewing over that memory all these years later, I look back and point to that moment and say, "See? I couldn't help myself. I was born to be a writer."
I remember stapling the pages of my stories together and letting my friends read them in the girl's bathroom in elementary school. I remember that feeling of giddiness when they'd beg to read more.
I remember staying inside on beautiful summer days, typing out ghost stories on my dad's electric typewriter, sipping a Pepsi in a camouflage cooler cup and munching on a Frick's ham sandwich. (By the way, Frick's has a Facebook page. That just blew my mind a little...)
In middle school, I remember writing in between breaks at basketball camp at the local college. One of the other campers read a bit of one of my stories and took off racing with it to show the English professor who worked there. He only glanced at the first page, which if I remember correctly, went something like this:
"Susie! It's time to get up!" Mom called up the stairs. "Coming!" I said, exasperated. I sat up in bed and flipped my long red hair over my shoulder. "It's time to get up now, and I mean it!" Mom yelled again. "I said I'm coming!"
etc. etc.
It was riveting stuff.
The professor laughed, adjusted his glasses, and handed my masterpiece back to me. He thought I was "cute." I could tell by how entertained he was by my sorry attempt at literature. I, on the other hand, was mortified. I hadn't wanted this man to see my writing, but there I was, Coke bottle glasses, fluorescent pink shorts and all, waiting for his verdict.
I remember he said something like, "I see you have an interest in writing!" After that there came this awful buzzing in my ears (that happens when my face goes red) and I didn't really pay attention to anything he said after that. I remember little snippets like, "Keep working at it!" and "It takes a long time to learn how to write well," and "Maybe I'll see you in one of my classes one day."
I pretty much got the heck outta there and never showed my writing to anyone ever again. Well, for a long time at least.
I remember years later showing my writing to two people I thought I trusted, only to get smacked in the face. One (my boyfriend at the time) accused me that my story had a hidden meaning, that the characters were based on real people, and that I was, in fact, professing my love for someone else, right there on the page.
Um. Riiiiiiiight.
Why do some people do that? Why do they look for a hidden meaning when there isn't one? Or assume a writer's imagination is so limited that their characters must all be caricatures of real people? Their story lines fantastical renditions of their own life?
Puh-leeze.
But anyway. Moving on.
Probably one of my most obvious Aha! moments was in college. My biology course was held in a lecture hall, one of those steep, stadium seating rooms with cushy, squeaky chairs. The professor did all his lecturing with the help of a projector, so the lights were always off. It was a napper's paradise. Only I didn't nap; I wrote.
I only went to that class to write stories.
And that's sort of when the light bulb went off, and I dared myself to think that maybe I could do this for a living.
Dear God, could I do this for a living?
From that moment on, I've devoted myself to bettering my craft. Not because I'm just looking for a job I enjoy, but because writing is something I must do. It's been a part of me since I could draw pictures, scribble words with Transformers push point pencils, or type on a Compaq Luggable computer.
I have characters who deserve to have their stories told. They deserve to live for 300 or so pages and take a stroll inside your mind.
That's where they belong, and I hope you'll get to meet them all one day. In the meantime, I enjoy looking back at those snapshots -- they remind me why I'm riding this never-ceasing, emotional roller coaster. Because no matter what's going on in my life, I have sanctuary in the written word. And there are millions of stories to tell.
I almost feel like I don't have enough time.
So? What were some of your Aha! moments -- those little snapshots you can point to and say YES, I was born to do this? Share in the comments below.
Those of you who know @briaquinlan know she's all sorts of smart. When I need advice, I shoot her an email, and she always takes the time to respond. She's just that sort of friend. A cheerleader. A truth-speaker. Encourager extraordinaire.
One of the best pieces of querying advice she ever gave me was The 100 Rejections Rule.
After my first five rejections, I was certain it was time to throw in the towel. My query must be crap. My book was obviously crap. My writing? Crap. And there wasn't one agent out there who wanted to claim me.
I was ready to give up on my novel, my writing career, my dream.
Because I was Just. That. Bad.
Several of my writing friends (who've all been there before), encouraged me to keep going. Some were gentle when they urged me to send out the next query. They sympathized. They coddled. Others took the No Nonsense Approach: "Rejected? Great! Now send your next query. NOW."
And through it all, Bria's practical advice stuck with me. It may not be for everyone, but it was exactly what I needed to weather the emotional storm. Now I find myself giving the same advice to my friends who are querying:
Don't even THINK about giving up on your novel until you've gotten 100 rejections.
Bria even sent me a chart to fill out aptly named the Rejection Hit List. Each time I sent a query, I'd input the agent's name and the date into a box on the chart. When they rejected me, I'd cross that box off. I wasn't allowed to complain about rejections or stop querying my novel until I had all 100 boxes crossed out.
One. Hundred.
Not only did this put my query journey in a realistic perspective, but I no longer had an excuse to wallow in my own misery for weeks on end. I could just look at the chart and see I had a long way to go. No time to wallow -- there's work to do!
If you think 100 sounds like too many, think again.
C.S. Lewis collected over 800 rejections before he sold a book.
Still not convinced it's a long, hard, rejection-filled journey? Take a look at these 50 Iconic Writers Who Were Repeatedly Rejected. Many of these authors faced rejection numbers well above 100.
100 is sooooo not an unrealistic goal.
For me, the "winning" number was 20. Yours might be 8, or maybe 42, or maybe 99. Whatever it is, it's a success.
I tweaked my query each time I sent it out, and even ended up scrapping it near the end and rewriting it. That final query was the one. I no longer received form rejections. I got requests. Then phone calls. Then offers.
You don't have to send the same query 100 times. Feel free to change it up and keep making it better. Take a query writing course like the one my good friend, CJ, teaches. Keep working. Keep making it better until you're getting requests left and right.
And if you hit the 100 mark, then, and only then, start to re-evaluate your novel. Maybe it will be time to write a different one. Maybe it will be time to query another novel you've written. Maybe it will be time to breathe new life into the first one.
Whatever the case, believe me, you'll have insight and a better game plan after 100 rejections.
So? What are you waiting for? Go forth and get rejected!
Remember my "do it your way" post last week? I got a lot of messages from folks who really related to it, and I'm so glad I was able to send a little encouragement their way.
The thing is, that post wasn't a bunch of feel-good tripe. I truly believe what I said. When it comes to art and creativity, you just have to do it your way and not care what others think.
In fact, I think Weezer says it best:
Imma do the things that I wanna do I ain't got a thing to prove to you
I eat my candy with the pork and beans
Excuse my manners if I make a scene
I ain't gonna wear the clothes that you like
I'm fine and dandy with the me inside
One look in the mirror and I'm tickled pink
I don't give a HOOT about what you think
Sing it with me now!
(Random fact: my friend and fellow Fiesta Agent, Judson Laipply, is in this video.So cool. See if you can spot him in the Orange Crush t-shirt, bustin' a few sweet moves.)
I vividly remember the first time someone criticized my imagination and creativity.
I was five years old and coloring at the babysitter's. I flipped through a Barbie coloring book and chose a page that looked something like this:
I loved the ones where Barbie had that luxuriously thick head of hair, where the strands coiled like a lion's mane. It reminded me of Elizabeth Shue's hair in Karate Kid, and I yearned to have hair so unruly. (Mine was/is pencil straight.)
Check out that hair. What's not to love?
Once I found the perfect coloring page, I fingered through my vast collection of Burnt Siennas, Hot Magentas, Goldenrods, and Aquamarines, and sipped on Tropical Punch Koolaid as I chose just the right hues for Barbie's hair. There had to be lowlights, highlights, etc., just like Elizabeth Shue's.
When I finished, Barbie's hair looked like this:
Gorgeous, no? I loved how leonine and soft and supple Barbie's hair looked when I used this coloring technique. While every other kid at the table used only one color for hair, bathing the strands in blah, I branched out and tried something new.
And my babysitter hated it.
She shuffled around the table, praising everyone's artwork, but when she came to mine, she screwed up her nose and said, "Why did you color her hair like that? That's so ugly! That's not what real hair looks like!"
I distinctly remember the look on her face. The expression was one of disgust (that I could produce something so hideous), one of annoyance (why had she agreed to babysit such a strange child?), and one of pity.
It was the pity that really got me. It said I was eat-the-paste special and deserved to be held back a few years before venturing into kindergarten.
Of course, I knew that wasn't true. I'd seen Barbie's hair depicted like this on many coloring book covers. And I knew I was good at coloring -- great, in fact, for a kid my age.
But never before had someone sneered at something I'd created. She made me feel so small and worthless in front of the other kids, like I shouldn't be allowed a page to color, or to revel in the waxy scent of Crayolas.
She made me question myself in a way no one in my family or at school ever had. And it shook my world.
I've been criticized a lot for doing things differently over the years, and I'm sure I'm in for much more in the future. But I learned early on that each sour puss who wagged a judgmental finger at my creativity had something in common. They didn't like anything that strayed from the familiar. They, more often than not, were the color-inside-the-lines types -- those who wanted to see conformity rather than expression.
I've met a lot of people like that in the writing/literary community. Those who believe there are black and white rules to writing, and when you dare to break one of those rules, they make faces full of disgust, annoyance, and pity. They make you feel small and worthless and eat-the-paste special.
For example, we're told to never switch tenses during a novel. NEVER. Ever.
"And yet Charlotte Brontë switches from past to present in Jane Eyre!" you say.
"Oh!" says the sour puss finger wagger. "But that is for literary effect, so it's allowed. And besides, Charlotte Brontë was a genius, and you're eat-the-paste special."
Don't get me wrong, I understand there is a difference between knowing literary techniques and using them correctly, and just writing willy-nilly with no regard for technique. But when one knows the techniques and tools, and simply uses them in a new and fresh way (like I did with Barbie's hair), I take issue with people considering that wrong.
I once had someone tell me my novel was bunk because the reader doesn't meet the villain until chapter 5. Sure, the villain is spoken about within the first two paragraphs of the book, but we don't actually meet her, see her face, hear her voice, until chapter 5. For shame!
And yet do we ever get to meet Sauron in Lord of the Rings?
"Oh!" says sour puss finger wagger. "But that's Tolkien! He can do anything he wants. Besides, Sauron didn't have a body. So how could we physically meet him?"
To that I say, Tolkien was a five-year-old once too. He colored and imagined and dreamed. Here's proof:
Okay, it's not Barbie hair, but you get my point. In creating a villain we never get to physically meet, he colored outside the lines. He did something new and unexpected.
In this early drawing above, Tolkien is said to be evoking a feeling of "walking above the abyss, the passing from one world into another."
I'm pretty sure my babysitter would have wrinkled her nose at it as well.
"What is this?" she would've said. "Are you suicidal or something?!"
Here's the bottom line, for all you writers, artists, and creators who feel discouraged:
Do it your way and don't look back.
Learn the rules so you know how to break them beautifully. Then break and break again. Because the shepherd pays the most attention to the lamb who strays from the flock.
