It’s always a tad flattering when people come to me seeking answers. Why only a tad? Because sometimes, the question is “where did you hide the bodies?” And really, if I wasn’t going to tell the police, why would I tell you? And I also like doing things publicly, as is noted by anyone who cares to use the Freedom of Information Act to find out exactly what went down with me in San Francisco in the summer of 1989.
Hence, when I get a question in my email that I think deserves an interesting response, I leap upon it. Such was the case when Doug wrote to me…
Dear Sam.
Greetings,
I am writing you because I am seeking advice. I am a novice fantasy writer and am currently half way through a manuscript for a high fantasy epic titled (Instrument of Vengeance). What I really want is some professional feedback, but I am not going to impose and ask you to read anything I’ve written.
Eventually, I will finish and am dreading how to get go about getting this published. I am trying to go for a lasting work over a profitable one and know because of the the unusual non conventional way I write and tell my tale that this will be a hard sell at best.
Do you have any thoughts on this? What advice would you give someone taking the path I have in the current market?
I suspect that every author is flattered by these “How Did You Get Published” questions (assuming the question is not “How Did You Get Published?”) since we truly enjoy the opportunity to discuss these subjects in a way that we usually only get to do with other authors, and then it’s usually pretty clouded by how badly we envy and despise each other.
This particular email I wanted to address due to the words Doug uses here: “unusual,” “non-conventional,” “impose,” “Newt Gingrich.”
Or maybe just two of those.
Of course, no one actually remembers the general attitude that Tolkien was met with when he penned Lord of the Rings, but from various accounts we can conclude that he was, in general, considered a little nuts for putting it out there. It seems a little strange today that we can say, with a straight face, “conventional fantasy” and have it mean something, but there’s no doubt that there is fantasy that’s easy to sell and fantasy that’s not that easy to sell.
Personally, I don’t know the difference between them. I could sit and conjecture about Harry Potter rip-offs, complex magical systems, moral ambiguity and how each of these affects a book’s ability to be sold. I could, but I won’t, because I honestly have no idea. I’m not the reading public. I’m nothing more than a humble, strikingly handsome author with excellent oral hygiene and a vocabulary that makes ladies swoon.
And I have no idea which one Tome of the Undergates falls under. Reviews are mixed, of course, and most agree that’s it fairly non-conventional. But (and I know some of them might not want to hear this) reviewers don’t know, either. They’re just as picky, selective, quirky and offbeat as nobody else and quite a few of them thrive on their quirks.
But that’s not the point.
I didn’t write for the reviewers.
And I didn’t write for the public, either (except my fictional memoirs ‘Why I Can’t Watch Cereal Commercials Without Crying.’ Those were all for you, baby.)
I wrote for myself.
And I’m not alone in this.
I’m sure a lot of authors, would-be or otherwise, sit at their computer desk/toilet if you have a laptop and ask themselves: “What is going to be the next great American novel that will capture the hearts of millions and sell at record numbers to shame the best and brightest literary minds in the world?”
In fact, go ahead and do that. Just close your eyes and ask yourself that.
If you thought about it for a moment and, in response, went slightly slack in the jaw, ignored a thin trail of drool that wept from the corner of your mouth and emitted a low, droning buuuuuuhhhhh sound: congratulations, you’ve got what it takes!
The answer “I have no idea” is integral to writing. Mark Newton once yelled at me for revealing this trade secret to an author, and I’m sure I probably should have cultivated the image that writing is a very deep, mystical thing. But I find that a lot of authors (good ones, at least) tend to shrug and say “I-uh-nuh” a lot, especially when it’s asked “why did you write this book?”
Probably because it never occurred to us not to.
And this is my point: the very first and most crucial step to getting published is to know who you’re writing for. There’s no shame in writing for an audience, of course, but you’d best make sure you fit that audience. If you’re going to write for yourself, however, you’ve got to be prepared for the fact that your voice (hopefully) is unique. It might be shrill, it might be sexy, it might be deep enough to sound like something out of something’s bowels and it scares children but some people think it’s pretty hot. Because your voice isn’t going to sound like flute music to everyone, including agents and publishers.
But, just like my dorm roommate who insisted that if you really listened hard to Soundgarden’s Black Hole Sun you could hear a really great recipe for kebab, there are going to be people your voice just sounds angelic to. It might be your agent, your editor, your publisher. Or it might not be for them but they might know who it is for. Or it might just not be for them and you can’t do poop about that.
But that’s not a bad thing. Davie Bowie is not a legendarily handsome man whose name I have tattooed on my left buttock because he’s a great, monstrous hit that everyone listens to. He is his own sound and I was really, really drunk.
This might sound a tad philosophical, but I genuinely think this was what I was least prepared for when I went into this business. It honestly did not occur to me that some people wouldn’t like my sound. It can be difficult to accept, of course, but eventually one comes to thrive on their individuality. Because some day, someone will have your name tattooed on their posterior and they’ll send you pictures.*
So, my best advice, for those of you who’ve got your own voice, is to be prepared for the very real fact that, just because someone doesn’t like it, doesn’t mean it’s not good.
On a more practical note, though: research your agents so you can find the best fit for your work (don’t send your Epic Fantasy to a Romance agent), heed their advice well, learn to separate useful criticism from smoke being blown up your anus and never, ever stop.
*Please stop sending me pictures, Stephen.
