It seems to me there’s been a lot of talk recently about writing for love. Over at Writer Unboxed, for example, Bruonia Barry recounts a harrowing journey toward her third novel. She missed her deadline—by two years! She went through “publishing hell” and some life challenges, but the real issue was the book itself.
I couldn’t go forward with what [the publisher] wanted me to write, and I couldn’t go back. I began to hate writing. It had become about product not process. It was no longer a passion, it was a job. I felt chained to my desk. My family’s livelihood depended on it. I was resentful. And growing to hate the career I’d longed for all my life. I told myself, I’d finish the book, but it would be my last.
A new agent and a talented freelance editor came into Barry’s life and helped her see the story was “better than I thought.” And she found a way for the book to take on “a life of its own” again.
The book is arguably the best I’ve written so far. It sold in two days to a better publisher who offered (ironically, I think) an even better deal. I am now a hundred pages into my fourth book, and I’m once again loving the process. But I will never again elevate the deal over the work. Or pitch a story I’m not yet sure of just for the sake of fulfilling a contract or receiving an advance. Lesson learned. For me to write anything I’m proud of, it can only be for love.
Good for her and her writing.
Though I sometimes wonder what the great pulp writers of old would have thought of this notion of writing for love. I’ve read a number of biographies of writers like Hammett, Chandler, Erle Stanley Gardner, Robert E. Howard––and they never thought in those terms. What they thought about was their next meal. They wrote for money. They wrote during the Depression. They wrote for markets, like Amazing Stories and Dime Detective and Black Mask. At a penny a word, they didn’t have the luxury of waiting for the muse to tickle their fancy. They had to type and type fast.
Back then, it seems to me, most writers who made a go of it thought of writing as a job, which required certain skills, just like bricklaying or carpentry. They got good at what they did and when they finished a solid story they felt satisfaction, for a job well done.
They felt even better when they got the check.
These days the debate seems to come down to an either/or exchange.
You should only write for love. That’s what makes your writing great.
No, you should write for money. That’s how you get to make a living at this.
I touched on this issue last month in my post “The Writer and the Market Should Be Friends.”
Today I want offer an analogy that hit me after I watched a bit of Fiddler on the Roof the other day.
My favorite song from that show is the little duet in the middle. Tevye and Golde have been married twenty-five years. It was an arranged marriage. Tevye now asks Golde, “Do you love me?”
She sloughs it off at first. Why is he asking now? Maybe it’s just indigestion. But Tevye persists. “Do you love me?”
Golde: Do I love him?
For twenty-five years, I’ve lived with him,
Fought with him, starved with him.
For twenty-five years, my bed is his.
If that’s not love, what is?
Tevye: Then you love me?
Golde: I suppose I do.
Tevye: And I suppose I love you, too.
Tevye and Golde: It doesn’t change a thing, but even so,
After twenty-five years, it’s nice to know.
A writer who is writing for a market is getting into an arranged marriage. He studies what’s being done, gets ideas, shapes them to fit. Eventually he gets married to one and sets off to write the book. He brings his skill set to it, does the best he can.
There are challenges along the way. Every book has them. It’s never all lollipops and roses. There may even be knockdown, drag-out fights.
But in that struggle the professional writer begins to feel something a little like love. For the characters, for the plot, for that next scene. And certainly he’s going to keep on to the end, and fix things when he gets there.
If that’s not love, what is?
It doesn’t change a thing, but even so, after twenty-five chapters, it’s nice to know.
With fiction authors’ incomes generally declining, writing primarily for money, except for already established authors, seems like an unrealistic goal, although if you want to branch out and write more than fiction, making a living from your writing is still possible.
That said, sometimes a challenging relationship (conflict between publisher and writer, editor and writer) will produce better results because the conflict raises issues and forces you to dig deeper.
Author incomes are declining in one sector of the publishing world…tradition! (Yes, the Fiddler references write themselves, as George demonstrates, below). But for many authorpreneurs who have gone indie, incomes are trending up. Which authorpreneurs are doing well? The ones replicating the market savvy as described.
And yes indeed, certainly a “troubled” relationship in the trad world can bring some very happy results. Also divorce.
Brilliant metaphor. Thanks. You have the writer’s addiction: can’t stop listening.
Thanks for the TKZ visit, Nancy.
“A writer who is writing for a market… studies what’s being done, gets ideas, shapes them to fit.”
Isn’t that called… TRADITION?
(And to push it one step further, Sheryl’s comment re: decking incomes can make one feel like a Fiddler…)
🙂
Daggum Otto Phi~
Shoulda been “re:declining incomes” – but I figgered y’all figgered that out…
😐
Got, George. But somehow “decking” fits…the trad industry has had to deck the large advances…
It’s true that both marriage and writing require lots of work. But I think with both, love is the only motivator that can sustain a body through such a long, convoluted journey.
For the old pro writers I think it was the mortgage and food on the table that sustained them.
Not sure I entirely agree. There’s a place where love and writing to market intersect, but it takes a disciplined writer to find that sweet spot. There was a blog a year or so ago where the gal got sick of making no money, so she studied the market for a money-making genre that she liked enough to write. Turns out she hit upon western romance as her niche. Her first book made more money than any of her previous books. She found the spot where love and the market intersect.
Notice those guys writing for pulp magazines were writing a genre they liked. That’s half the battle.
Kessie, I’m not following why there’s disagreement. As I said in a previous post, finding where love and market intersect is the best way to get married.
However, I don’t think you can make blanket statement about all the pulp writers writing in genres they “liked.” More accurate would be that they wrote in the genres that paid, and did a good job.
Great metaphor! I was going to use the word “brilliant” until I saw that Nancy used it.
Writing for a market – for success. And writing for love – to sustain the effort, to keep the marriage going. What a great fusion.
And as for the love, I remember a great author of fiction craft describing the “joy” that is found is successful books.
A great day to repeat out vows.
Thanks for an inspiring post.
Yes, Steve, joy derived from the act of STORYTELLING itself. And finding joy in the story you’ve chosen to write comes in great measure simply from knowing HOW.
It all goes back to that “eyes wide open” thing that has been discussed previously. You mention in one of the comments that the pulp writers didn’t necessarily like the genre they wrote in, they just wrote.
For me, that would be untenable. I don’t ever want writing to descend to the level of ordinary day job. There are already enough tortures in life. I know myself well enough to know that if I tried to force myself to write to the grind like that, I would not write for long.
But kudos to those who can.
To be clear, I didn’t mean they were turned off by the genres. They LIKED telling stories. Some of them would have LOVED to be famous literary writers, but the need to make a living turned them to pulp writing.
The prime example was Cornell Woolrich, one of the greatest (some would say THE greatest) suspense writers of the 20th century. What he wanted most was to be the next F. Scott Fitzgerald. He took his shot, and failed. So he could have gone to work as a clerk, or he could write for the pulp market. He chose the latter. He found out what he could do well, and that he got paid, and it was a job he was good at.
I’m not trying to be unnecessarily pedantic, but when people say “write for love” they act like it’s all love. I don’t know about anyone else, but when I’m writing no matter how much I love a project, there are days/weeks that I hate it. Not just “thrill has faded” but actively loathe it.
Point is, it’s not all love or all dull drudgery. Embracing the things you like about the project, even if it’s the satisfaction of a job well done as Jim suggests, can help, but I feel like expecting it to be all sunshine and daisies is a set up for discontent.
Writing to the market is…interesting. I’ve seen it mentioned so it can be done, but I’m not sure how you would do that exactly, since we’re two years behind what’s being acquired in traditional publishing. Writing to a trend is supposed to be a bad idea since you’ll be catching the back half of the wave.
Thanks again for the great insight as usual!
You put it well, Elizabeth. I would say there is a difference between writing for a market and chasing a trend. The latter is, as you suggest, pretty much like running after the train after it’s left the station, in great part because of the lag time in traditional publishing. Indies can hop on board a lot faster.
But market considerations are a bit broader. If one has to choose whether to write the “book of my heart” (which happens to be made up entirely of one man’s thoughts as he repairs a refrigerator) and a good high concept thriller, one makes a market determination. Which book should he spend the next 6 months or year writing? What are his goals? It’s the kind of calculus any business makes; any business that wants to make a profit, that is.
One nice thing about indie publishing is that you can indulge your experimental side if you like. You just know that some kinds of books generally don’t sell as well as others.
A very well-put explanation to a tangled relationship, Jim.
That’s why there are editors, Mike. They are marriage counselors.
Writing for love is a luxury, Jim. I wrote my Josie Marcus series because my publisher wanted a series about a mystery shopper. It was supposed to be a two or three book series. But somehow, it became a ten-book series and I realized I didn’t want to write Josie any more, no matter how good the money. I wanted to write darker books again. My publisher let me roll my Josie contract into another book in the Dead-End Job series. And I started my death investigator series. My husband stayed at a newspaper job so I’d have insurance — and if you know anything about newspapers today, that is love. The death investigator series debuts this summer with BRAIN STORM, and I hope we’ll live happily ever after
You have a great situation, Elaine. A ten-book series is a rarity, and that led to your publisher letting yo take a flyer. And a supportive husband, too! What a great package. Good luck with the new series.
Love this, AND Fiddler! That play was one of the inspirations for my second novel, by the way. 🙂 Now well into writing my 4th contracted MS, I am learning the benefits of studying and discovering how my love for words can meet the hopes and hearts of readers (aka the market). It IS a balance, and it IS work. The heart lies therein, IMHO.
Perfectly stated, Amy. I can’t even quote Tevye here (“On the other hand…”) Happy writing!
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