Conduct Beyond the (Creative Writing) Classroom
Importantly (and likely not surprisingly), professional authors do quite a bit more than tap away at their computers, generating masterpieces (hopefully) for readers to enjoy: We also write reviews for literary journals and more popular, “mainstream” magazines. Publishing houses periodically ask us to assess manuscripts which they are considering for publication. Many of us teach. Students of creative writing may not be asked to take on these tasks until they have established something of a “name” for themselves. But when the time comes, it’s essential that they continue to follow the “golden rule.” The skills that we hone in creative writing courses, to do with delivering feedback respectfully and sensitively, serve us well in our careers. Creative writing classes are training grounds for our membership in the broader communities of writers we join as professional, published authors.
Someone once said, “life is not a dress rehearsal.” (I can’t, for the life of me, figure out the origins of this cliché.) The same cannot quite be said of writing. Before our work is widely disseminated (through performance, digital media, print), we put it through plenty of “rehearsals” by rewriting, revising, editing, and rewriting some more. We seek feedback from colleagues and heed the advice of editors. Of course, realistically, much of what we produce won’t get past the “rehearsal” stage; yet it seems to me that we should operate under the assumption that all of it will.
What this means is that you should take your writing seriously. Be confident, I say. (Fake confidence if you must!) It’s all too common for novice writers to doubt themselves, their talent, and their potential (“no one is ever going to read my stuff”). I suppose that — in an odd way — a shortage of self-confidence can be liberating (“no one is ever going to read my stuff so I can do whatever I like”). But, with apologies for repeating myself, adopting the assumption that “anything goes” can backfire in an awful hurry.
Returning (and adding) to the story I shared at the beginning of this chapter, I’ll confess that I didn’t have great confidence in Kalyna’s Song. Even after I signed a contract with my publisher and began the process of bringing the novel to press, a part of me kept waiting to be exposed as an imposter: sooner or later, it would be revealed that the editorial board made a mistake. Only after seeing page proofs and cover artwork did “it” actually seem real. The manuscript really was going to become a book. By then, it was too late for me to make changes, assuming that I’d wanted to– which I hadn’t. The truth is, I’d given almost no thought to how readers would react to what I’d written because I hadn’t dared to envision the book’s next chapter — that is to say, the “life” it would take on once it went out into the world. Self-doubt might have freed me from worrying about how the novel would be received; at the same time, it’s the reason why I live with regrets about my mistakes and missteps.
I understand that my final pieces of advice to you might seem frustratingly vague and a bit contradictory. Do take risks, but be careful. Approach your work earnestly, and with confidence; believe in your writing and yourself (I sound like a greeting card, I know.) Don’t, however, be so brazen as to lose sight of your readers or your responsibilities to them.
If only we had the luxury of “black-and-white” rules which, when followed, would ensure that we all practice our craft with integrity. But, alas: our discipline is rife with grey areas — scenarios that call on us to make our own, individual decisions to do with the ethical dimensions of our work.
If you take nothing else away from this chapter, I hope that it will be this: words have power. Your words have power. Wield it wisely.
