I was all ready to write a riveting post on urban fantasy (really, this was going to be world-class stuff) when I read this interview with Paolo Bacigalupi this morning. And I realized I had to write about it instead.
For those of you not in the know, Paolo won about a bazillion awards for his debut science fiction novel The Windup Girl; in addition he received strong reviews for his first YA novel Shipbreaker. The entire interview is interesting, but what I want to respond to is what Paolo says at the end:
I realized I’d actually been carrying a lot of baggage from people who would make offhand comments like, ‘well, it’s not like you’re working.’
I was still accumulating some sort of psychic pain over it. You know, that all these people really did think I was a loser, and slacking around and doing nothing, basically. And when you’re writing your fifth book, and four of them have already failed, you’re obviously a joke, right?
Yes, this. Exactly this.
As many of you know, I closed my successful business (in the arts! how did that happen?) at the end of May to pursue writing full force. And the kind of psychic pain Paolo is talking about here is my current reality.
It’s an insidious kind of discomfort, comprising of little pauses, supportive assumptions, and politeness. No one comes right out and says, “But what about your real job?” A few people have delicately inquired how my husband feels about it (I would hope the answer would be self apparent, but perhaps not.) People get frustrated when they can’t reach me by telephone when they’re calling during business hours because it’s not like I have other commitments. (I do. They’re called writing.)
It doesn’t help that so much of writing does look exactly like slacking off. I do some of my best work in the shower, or walking the dog, or sitting there staring out the window. When I’m planning a project, I can fuss around the house for weeks trying to figure it all out. And without a word of manuscript to show for it. (Although maybe my reams of notes count?)
And then there’s the entire publication question. I am at the stage in my career that is known as pre-professional. This is the nice way of saying I have no writing credits, no agent, and no deals in the works. I like to think of it as my apprentice stage, a necessary stepping stone if I’m ever to achieve more. People in the arts understand this. Other people, well … some of them understand it. Others are baffled.
In the end, I’ll embrace this psychic pain; it’s the cost of getting to do what I love all day every day, and well worth paying.
But it sure feels good to see another writer with similar feelings getting the last laugh.
The Practical Free Spirit 
Amy,
I hear you on this subject! It’s funny, that if you tell someone you are going to school for writing they can at least grasp that concept. But if you are at home doing the hard work yourself (without the context of a degree) that it seems like you are doing nothing.
I think the important thing to realize is that this has less to do with you and more to do with them. Follow your bliss and stay true to your path. Your husband supports you, and us fellow writers out here support you as well!
Yes, I think it really helps to be part of the writing community.
And yes, I totally agree with you that it’s as if I’m in school, except I’m self directing my study. 🙂
I totally hear you, Amy.
I think part of the problem is that horrid question “What do you do?” They mean “What is your job” and by extension, “How much money do you make?” and by that they mean “How much are you worth?”.
Nevermind that CEOs who make more money than Bruce Wayne spend much of their days sitting in meetings or having expensive dinners with rich people. Because if you get paid a gazillion dollars an hour to sit on your butt in a meeting room, that’s “real work” but if you get paid nothing to sit on your butt in a coffee shop or a library, you’re “not working.”
The outside pressure to be a “real writer” and or a “good writer” and or “make a living” can be stifling. When it gets too much, I push it aside and take comfort in the writing itself. Sometimes the joy of creation is the only reward. And besides, my imaginary friends think I’m awesome.*
*Actually, my imaginary friends think I am a cruel and capricious goddess. They are correct.
Yes! The joy of creation is the *best* reward.
I hate the “What do you do?” question too. Even though I often find myself wanting to ask it. I try to find other ways to ask what I really want to know, which is: how do you spend your time? what subjects are you interested in or even passionate about? what kind of things are you going to enjoy talking about?
Money is such a loaded topic, I’m afraid to even go there. 🙂
Seriously. 🙂
I think those reams of notes count. From what I’ve watched of you writing, at least half of the work goes in to figuring out what to write/revise/and so on; by the time you’re setting words to paper, you have a pretty clear idea of what those words are going to be saying.
Also, it’s amazing how much politer Paolo sounds in your excerpt than in his interview…
That’s me, working hard to make other writers look good … or at least polite, I guess. 🙂
And yes, of course the notes count. They’re just not as shiny as manuscript pages.
I had this experience last weekend, when a family friend asked (obviously at a loss for something to say to the teacher who writes on the side), “So how long then? Like a year?” It’s hard to explain to non-writers that it’s not all about the book deal–especially when you’re still writing it! It can be frustrating not to be taken seriously by people who don’t understand the process. Thank goodness for supportive writer friends!
When I started writing, I had no idea how critical having writing friends would be. Nowadays I don’t know what I’d do without them! 🙂
It’s helpful to read this, because whenever I’m sitting staring blankly trying to brainstorm, I feel bad about it, as if I should be more productive.
Brainstorming is an important part of the process, at least for me. But it’s not as measurable, which can be problematic.
It doesn’t really matter whether or not you’re sitting at home staring off into space, or sitting at home typing constantly, blood sweating out through your skin–people who aren’t in the arts will assume you’re twiddling your thumbs. That’s how North American culture works; there is little respect for arts professionals here.
I get where this comes from. A society with a puritan work ethic values effort. A materialist society values markers of value, such as money. Therefore blue-collar workers are working because their jobs are physically taxing, and white-collar workers in offices and such are working because they must be or they wouldn’t be making money. Artists, on the other hand, aren’t digging ditches (most of them, anyway), and it takes a long time before they’re making money. Therefore they’re not working, supposedly, and must be layabouts.
I get it, but it still pisses me off. Artists are by and large more educated, with more skills and experience than the average worker of their age, and by and large make much less income than others. I think most of us would be fine with this situation, if it were just that society valued artists not for their monetary ‘worth’, or the awards they earned, but instead valued them for their diligence, and respected that a lengthy apprenticeship is not only the norm but the reality for our careers. No wonder the stereotypical artist is self-conscious, or even self-loathing! If economists needed to spend 10-20 years learning their trade part-time, without pay or much direction, and during that time most everyone assumed that they were lazy good-for-nothings, we’d have a lot more self-loathing economists too (and probably a lot less economists, I might add).
I console myself with the following: Most people don’t even try to understand the value of others. This is not just a problem that artists suffer from. It’s a more extreme problem for artists because we’re a smaller group, and also because governments in North America don’t really pay attention to our issues as of yet–but everyone has the same problem. It’s not *much* consolation, but at least it’s something . . .
I would add that it’s a more extreme problem for artists because our work is not in line with current society values.
I don’t know if I agree that government involvement is the answer (or at least I don’t think it’s particularly likely at this time).
Rock on, Rich. You took a number of words out of my mouth. It’s sort of wonderfully hilarious that probably the most difficult writing I’ve done has been for the recent revisions on the novel.
In order to make the visionary sequences work, I had to have actual visions, and yet they had to be lucid and meaningful. I wound up utilizing techniques derived from surrealist and occult traditions.
In order to do this, I had to work for a couple of hours a day for a couple of weeks just to get a few pages to work properly, and it was fucking challenging, difficult, right-on-the-edge-of-my-ability stuff.
I mean, this had me drained, beat, exhausted. I have dug ditches. I know what work is. This was work.
From the outside, it looked like I was laying in bed with earplugs on and a pillow over my face. Totally indistinguishable from a nap. Cue the trombones — Bwah-wah-wah.
And by the way, I went through a few years where I had to put up with real shit for not working, and I wasn’t just devoting myself to art, I was disabled on top of it. A lot of what it is, is people hate their jobs so much that anyone who doesn’t experience that suffering is a supplemental source of suffering.
I can dig it. But I’m so glad to have gotten to the point where people agree that I’m doing what I should be doing. I’m getting respect again.
But that’s something they never told me at school, the part where you just have to let go of a certain amount of pride.
I’m glad you’ve gotten to that point, too, Sean. Respect isn’t necessary to getting good work done, but it’s nice all the same.