Advice for Writers

Monday, February 6, 2012

Tips for the AWP Conference, Part 2: Don't Avoid the Book Fair

Many people who attend the annual conference of the Associated Writers and Writing Programs (AWP) avoid the book fair. It’s true the book fair can be completely paralyzing, with its hundreds of booths and thousands of attendees all schmoozing as if their lives depended on it. Don’t miss the book fair, though. It’s the best opportunity all year to make contact with editors and with organizations for literary writers.

But when you visit the book fair, go with a specific purpose in mind.

Let’s say you’ve got several stories or poems you feel are ready to send out. Ignore the booths of presses that only publish graphic novels about surfing vampires. Focus on talking to presses that have a magazine that’s looking for new work, but don’t miss the fun of just a random conversation.

Bring a business card. If you don't have a business card for your work as a writer, just print it on a laser printer onto card stock.

Make contact with editors who might appreciate your work. Leave a card with them and say something positive about what you sincerely admire about their publication. If you can afford it, buy one of their books or magazines. Ask for the card of the editor you want to send work to, make notes on the back of the card about what you discussed. Email or write to that person directly when you follow up. Don't make contact until several days after the conference, not during the conference. Don’t give out anything other than your card during AWP. The people at the tables are under siege. Be considerate. When you write to them later, just remind the editor that you met at AWP.

The same idea applies if you have a manuscript to send out. Find out which presses are open to new work in your genre and in your style, and get a business card of a person to send a manuscript to. Follow up with every place where you have a good contact, but after the conference.

If you have a book to publicize, look for reading series and publications that review work in the same vein as your book.

Besides all the schmoozing, make sure to take in at least two great readings at the conference, and two panels that make you rethink what literature can mean. Invite someone to lunch you didn’t know before the conference. And leave time to enjoy and explore the city of the bookfair and/or its surroundings.

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Zack’s new book of poetry, The Kama Sutra for Senior Citizens and Other Poems on Aging. Order in the USA Order in the UK

Zack’s most recent translation: The Water Drinkers and Other Sketches of Paris in the Romantic Era by Henry Murger

Thursday, February 2, 2012

Tips for the AWP Conference, Part 1

The annual conference of the Associated Writers and Writing Programs (AWP) is an amazing event that brings together many thousands of writers, publishers, and creative writing instructors in one place for four days. It’s the largest gathering of its kind in North America.

The AWP conference has an interesting history. According to Christian Teresi, AWP’s former director of conferences, “The first conference was in 1972 at the Library of Congress, and hosted only six events. It’s safe to say there were at most a couple of hundred people there.” Growth was slow during the early years. “I can tell you that at the 1991 conference in Miami there were only around 16 events and 40 presenters,” Teresi recounted. Since then, the increase in the number of participants and programs has been nothing short of astronomical. “By 2012 we already had over 400 events and 1600 presenters.”

The AWP conference is now as over-stimulating as seven marching bands all doing their routines at once on the same football field. You get to hear great or disappointing readings by writers you admire, have chance encounters in glass elevators with people you never wanted to see again, discover writers you’re delighted to learn about, get headaches, wolf down overpriced food, buy more books than you planned, make embarrassing faux pas, and maybe reach a few people with your work who didn’t know your writing beforehand.

Is it worth it? Absolutely. It’s a unique and amazing opportunity to have that many literary people and institutions in one place at one time. You get to hear some of your literary heroes. You have the chance to meet the editors of your favorite magazines and presses, and to find out about ones you never knew existed.

But I find that it’s much more productive to go to AWP if you have a clear goal in mind.

Think about what your current needs are as a writer. Do you have several pieces you’re ready to send to magazines? Have you got a manuscript for a new book that you’re hoping to find a publisher for? Do you have a new book just published that you want to publicize? Are you looking for a job or internship with a literary organization? Do you want to get re-energized to go home and write? Pick a goal and stick to it.

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Zack’s new book of poetry, The Kama Sutra for Senior Citizens and Other Poems on Aging. Order in the USA Order in the UK

Zack’s most recent translation: The Water Drinkers and Other Sketches of Paris in the Romantic Era by Henry Murger

Tuesday, January 31, 2012

Working with a Writing Mentor, Part 4: When Do I Get to Stop Paying Attention to Comments on My Writing?

Do you have to pay attention to the comments of others for your entire career as a writer? Doesn’t there come a point where you can actually edit your own work without any help? Hey, I hate to be the one to break the news to you, but almost all the good writers I know rely heavily on friends, editors, agents, and/or family members for critiques of their work.

Look in the acknowledgments of any book you enjoy, and you’ll see that writing is not a solo Lindbergh flight across a vast ocean. Here’s a quote from the acknowledgments of the David E. Hoffman’s book The Dead Hand: The Untold Story of the Cold War Arms Race and Its Dangerous Legacy, which won the Pulitzer Prize for general nonfiction in 2010: “Four gifted colleagues at the [Washington] Post provided years of inspiration as well as valuable comments on the book… To my wife, Carole, who read the entire manuscript many times over… profound appreciation for loving support… ” Sandra Cisneros, in the acknowledgments for her novel Caramelo puts it even more clearly: “A writer is only as good as her editors.”

You do get to the point in your literary career where you have received the same comment enough times that you can remind yourself of that thought, and apply it to your own writing. You make progress as a writer as you internalize the most astute and useful comments of your mentors and your peers.

I had the amazing good fortune to have as my mentor in college and in graduate school the poet June Jordan. June died in 2002, but I still feel her looking over my shoulder when I write, making her comments, applying her high standards. June always wanted to know if I had used the freshest possible language in what I was writing, without exception. Did I include and speak with respect about those whose concerns are rarely heard? Did I actually excite and challenge the reader? Is the writing sexy? I also remember the praise that she gave me, the very first time I met with her in 1975, when I was an undergraduate at Yale University and she listened so attentively to the poem she made me read aloud to her during her office hours. She squinted at me with that quizzical look she had, with a twitch in one eye, but also with an amused curve to her lips. Don’t forget the praise you’ve gotten from your mentors, either.

To sum up this series of blogs on how to deal with comments from others on our work: I see so many writers, especially newer writers, just shut out most criticism. They assume it’s going to dilute the purity of their personal artistic vision. They fear it will tear apart their new literary identity. But to refuse to listen to the best comments of others, or to listen to them and then basically disregard or forget them, is to doom yourself to the ranks of amateur writers who will never be able to bring their projects to the level of fine art. There’s nothing wrong with being an amateur writer, but I don’t think a single person reading this has that ambition in mind.

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Zack’s new book of poetry, The Kama Sutra for Senior Citizens and Other Poems on Aging. Order in the USA Order in the UK

Zack’s most recent translation, The Water Drinkers and Other Sketches of Paris in the Romantic Era by Henry Murger

Friday, January 27, 2012

Working with a Writing Mentor, Part 3: When Should You Trust Your Mentor?

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The one person whose advice you should listen to absolutely without question is your mentor. Now, just by coincidence, I happen to be a mentor. Mentor is a word that comes from ancient Greek and means someone who has made endless mistakes over an entire lifetime. I’m joking, but it is true that over the course of decades in the arts, a mentor has made almost every possible error that a writer can make.

The reason this is good news for you, is that your mentor can perhaps prevent you from repeating some of those mistakes yourself.

In reality, the goddess Minerva in Homer’s Odyssey took the form of the character named Mentor to guide Telemachus in how to deal with those pesky suitors, who were hitting on his mom, Penelope.

Sometimes you don’t understand why your mentor is recommending certain changes in your work. Feel free to ask if you don’t see why your mentor is suggesting something. But at some point, if you are a creative writing student or a new writer, you sometimes have to take it on faith that your mentor is guiding you in the right direction. As the words of the spiritual go, We will understand it better, by and by.

That isn’t to say that you should follow your mentor without question. You should be particularly attentive to your mentor’s blind spots, and the places where your mentor’s aesthetic may not coincide with our own. Your mentor could be from an older generation. Things that make sense to your generation might seem odd to your mentor. Your mentor may be of a different background in terms of class, race, gender, sexuality, etc., and that might create areas of aesthetic disconnect.

That doesn’t mean your mentor’s advice is wrong, but it might mean that you have an area where your taste does not overlap. In those areas, just politely agree to disagree with your mentor’s opinions. But make sure you’re not doing that out of laziness about questioning your own assumptions or naiveté.

Other recent posts about writing topics:
Working with a Writing Mentor: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5

How Not to Become a Literary Dropout, Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10
Putting Together a Book Manuscript, Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7

How to Get Published: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4
Getting the Most from Your Writing Workshop: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6
Does the Muse Have a Cell Phone?: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5
Using Poetic Forms, Part 1: Introduction; Part 2: The Sonnet; Part 3, The Sestina;
Part 4, The Ghazal; Part 5, The Tanka

Tuesday, January 24, 2012

Working with a Writing Mentor Part 2: Why It’s Difficult to Take Criticism of Your Writing

I understand how hard it is to absorb criticism in a world that is often indifferent to, hostile to, or resentful of your work as a writer. There are so many coworkers, relatives, and failed-writer English teachers who seem to feel it is their purpose in life to distance you from your creative self. To defend yourself from those who advise you against your creativity, you may sometimes build a bunker that you retreat into when you hear criticism.

Let me give you an example of how that sort of bunker can sometimes work to defeat you. When I was a much younger writer, I had the good fortune to have a book accepted by a great editor at a major press. I had written a poem called “Oranges” about the many people and languages that went into growing and bringing to market a single orange. The celebrated children’s author Marilyn Sachs advised me to edit the poem and send it out as the text of a picture book. I did, and to my amazement, it was accepted by Richard Jackson, who then had his own imprint at Orchard Books. If you’re a book editor at a major press, having your own imprint is like getting on Top Chef if you’re a cook. Dick Jackson had edited many writers who had written much better and more successfully for children than I had, including Judy Blume.

I first met with Dick Jackson in his office high up in a Manhattan skyscraper, with a view of expensive water. I was armed with all my defenses about what it meant to deal with a major press. I was sure he was going to try to censor the political content of my text. I also had in mind a politically correct poster artist I wanted to do the illustrations. Of course that artist had never illustrated a children’s book in his life. Dick Jackson politely informed me that he already had an illustrator in mind, a fantastic artist named Mary Szilagyi who, it turned out, was infinitely better known in the world of children’s books than I was. This was an incredible advantage for a novice writer, since it would bring the book to the attention of reviewers. I didn’t realize that at the time, though, so I resented that Dick Jackson didn’t take my naive suggestion about choosing an illustrator. My dander was up even higher at this point in our meeting.

Then Dick Jackson asked me to change a line that appeared many times in the poem. With each new person who helped to grow or ship or market this orange, I had added a line about the language that the person spoke: “Probably he spoke Spanish,” “Probably she spoke Creole,” etc. My aim was to show the multicultural sources of even the most familiar object. Dick suggested I change that repeating phrase to “Maybe he spoke Spanish,” etc. How did I know, after all, what language a certain individual spoke, and wasn’t that very stereotypical to assume that a farm worker spoke Spanish? Immediately I got defensive and retreated into my tortoise shell. No, I wasn’t going to let the multinational publishing industry tell me how to write poetry. I stood my ground and refused, despite his entreaties. How much I regret now not listening to him—the book was printed with the line as I wrote it, and it has never been reprinted as a children’s book since that first year, when it did sell quite well, thanks in large part to Mary Szilagyi’s wonderful illustrations.

My point is that you may assume that someone who is criticizing your work is against you, when in reality, that person is more likely than not for your text, if he or she is taking the time to read and critique it carefully. The longer I write, the more grateful I am when someone hands me a good suggestion for my work. It’s a gift. Now if I like it, I grab it greedily, and stuff it right into my text. I might not incorporate the suggestion exactly as the other person has offered it, but I will take it willingly, and with thanks, if it is an improvement over what I have written on my own.

Other recent posts about writing topics:Working with a Writing Mentor: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5

Friday, January 20, 2012

Working with a Writing Mentor, Part 1: Trusting the Advice

In the last few years I’ve had the opportunity to be a novice writer again when I tried to go outside my main genre of poetry to write plays. Since almost all of my earlier work was poetry, my first attempt at a play was basically a series of dramatic monologues, loosely stitched together. Luckily I had a very experienced mentor to help me in my first efforts as a playwright: the late Barbara Oliver, founder of the Aurora Theatre in Berkeley, California; a veteran producer, director, and actor who brought many new plays to fruition. Barbara actually said to me after reading my first play, “You have to have the actors talk to each other when they’re on stage,” which gives you an idea of how unfinished that script was. Several years later, when I wrote my third play, Things I Didn't Know I Loved, based on the life and poetry of the Turkish writer Nazim Hikmet, Barbara Oliver read and critiqued many, many drafts of it.

Barbara provided me with numerous valuable suggestions on each version, telling me not to get too caught up in the research I had done, and dig for the drama in each scene. There was one scene in particular that Barbara objected to, but I wouldn’t let go of it. She quoted for me a comment she had heard the playwright David Mamet make, "Writing a play is like building an airplane. You have to get rid of everything that impedes the thrust." Think how streamlined a jet is.
So Barbara convinced me to take out an entire scene that I was very attached to, a scene that involved Nazim’s relationship with the Turkish head of state, Ataturk, whom he had a complex admiration for and conflict with. But that scene didn’t move ahead the story of Nazim Hikmet’s life enough to merit its inclusion in the play. Working on my own, I would never have cut that scene, but at a certain point, I realized that Barbara just knew more than I did. She had decades of experience producing plays, some productions that had worked, some that had flopped, and she just knew. So I took her word for it and cut the scene. At times, you just have to go on faith and trust your mentor. I'll talk more about the mentoring relationship in my next few blogs.

Other recent posts about writing topics:
Working with a Writing Mentor: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5
How to Get Published: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4
Putting Together a Book Manuscript, Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7
How Not to Become a Literary Dropout, Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10
Putting Together a Book Manuscript, Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7
Getting the Most from Your Writing Workshop: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6
Why Write Poetry? Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4
Does the Muse Have a Cell Phone?: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5
How to Deliver Your Message: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4
Using Poetic Forms, Part 1: Introduction; Part 2: The Sonnet; Part 3, The Sestina; Part 4, The Ghazal; Part 5, The Tanka

Wednesday, January 18, 2012

Getting the Most Out of Your Writing Workshop, Part 5:Talking Yourself Out of Writing Well—Ignoring the Comments of Your Workshop

Why write down all the comments that people make about your writing in a workshop? Because it’s hard to really hear that much criticism all at once. It’s a bit overwhelming, and mostly you're too excited by the attention to your writing to be in a completely receptive mood at that moment. Time is the best editor. Sometimes you’re eager to incorporate the feedback you’ve gotten and you want to revise right away. But oftentimes you need time to reflect on the comments, to see which ones roll off your back, and which ones sink in deeply.

Even if you carefully listen to and record all the comments about your writing in a workshop, there are all-too-many ways you can talk yourself out of making good changes suggested to you. Here are a few.

If the change that a workshop suggests turns out to be obvious, my first reaction is to think that this change simply has to be made, and the sooner the better! But then, after the workshop, when I’m back home, I start pondering the suggestion. If the suggestion was so obvious, why didn’t I see the problem myself? So if I didn’t see the need for it, maybe no one else will, except the few misguided individuals who happened to be in that workshop that day, so why should I start tampering with my writing?

A similar way to ignore good criticism is to start blaming your readers, instead of hearing their criticism. You might write a piece with the intention of being funny, for instance, but it could come off as self-righteous or angry to your workshop. It isn’t easy to make the difficult effort of rethinking your writing and subtly changing its tone. That takes a lot of rewriting, and most of us hate to rewrite. It’s much simpler to fault the criticism, and imagine that the others were just misreading you. That’s a dangerous assumption, since readers are your audience, and who else is going to appreciate your writing if not your readers?

Another way of talking yourself out of a good suggestion is a strategy I’ve seen my seven-year-old son employ very effectively, which usually begins something like, “Mommy, Daddy says I can’t have another dessert because I already ate cake at the birthday party.” My son knows that I will hold the line on not having two desserts in one day, but his mother can always be relied on to bend the rules when it comes to sweets. I’ve seen creative writing students and less experienced writers do more or less the same thing, playing a more indulgent mentor or faculty member off against a stricter one, just to avoid making a change to their work that, on a deeper level, they know will improve it.

Sometimes you might also think that the pure spontaneity of your creation will be spoiled by making the changes that a writing group or workshop suggests. You experienced that glorious rush of passionate creation while you were writing, and all those unfortunate others just don’t understand. If you make changes, the flow of thrilling artistry will evaporate during the process of correcting and editing. But that is the equivalent of saying that if you fall in love with someone you shouldn’t actually spend time together, because the perfection of your love will be smeared by the reality of being in that person’s imperfect presence. Well, some people actually do believe this, too.

Similar to this is the fear that some beginning writers have that they only possess a limited amount of creativity, and that if they cut anything in their work, nothing will arise to replace it. I don’t believe that creativity is like a diamond mine, where once you pry out all the gems, nothing is left, and you might as well block up the shaft. Creativity is like a fountain or a well, which flows incessantly—barring disasters. There’s more where that writing came from, so if it doesn’t work, don’t worry about deleting it.

Another way to avoid making improvements to your work is to use the lack of consensus in a workshop as an excuse for not listening to any comments. “If they can’t figure out what I should do to fix this,” you tell yourself, “why should I listen to anything they say?” Because some of their comments are more useful for this particular piece of writing than others, to put it simply.

You have to be diligent about editing and improving your work because you can’t really afford consistently to annoy or anger your readers. Your readers are not your sisters or brothers or your roommates. Your readers are like people you meet by chance at a party. They will only listen to you as long as they like. They can walk any time. You have to be attentive to what interests them, what amuses them, what moves them, and what makes them think—and conversely, what inconveniences, confuses, or bores them. There are many other authors they could talk to at this party. That doesn’t mean you have to reduce your content to the lowest common denominator, it just means you have to deliver that content in a way that both considers and buttonholes the reader.

Other recent posts on writing topics:Getting the Most from Your Writing Workshop: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6

How to Get Published

How Not to Become a Literary Dropout

Putting Together a Book Manuscript

Working with a Writing Mentor

How to Deliver Your Message

Does the Muse Have a Cell Phone?

Why Write Poetry?

Poetic Forms: Introduction; The Sonnet, The Sestina, The Ghazal, The Tanka

Praise and Lament
How to Be an American Writer