By PJ Parrish
So there I was, on a panel at the Miami Book Fair. This was decades ago, and I was still a novice — I think my third book had just come out — and how I snagged a spot on this panel I’ll never know. My stuff was out only in paperback original, and back in those days, well, that was lesser-than.
I don’t remember the title of the panel. I do remember it was something smug-sounding. You know, like — Voice and Validity In Post-Mo Femme Fiction. Okay, I made that up, but dontcha just wanna slap whoever it is that names some of these panels? Just once, I want to see something like this on a writer’s con program:
- Name Dropping. How To Do It Well, And Badly.
- The Unhappy Authors Panel
- All About Crystals, Rainbows, and Unicorns
- How To Corner And Pitch An Agent In The Lobby Can
- Men Who Cannot Stop Speaking and the Women Who Put Up With It
- Rambling and Off-Color Jokes By Almost-Major Authors
- Enough About Me. What Do You Think of Me?
And the last panel on Sunday morning in the half-empty auditorium because everyone has left early to catch their planes:
- This Is What Authors Look Like Who Drank Too Much Last Night.
I’ve been on that last panel more times than I can count. Hat-tip, by the way, to children’s writer Mette Ivie Harrison whose material (above) I borrowed.
Anyway, there I was. Sweaty, nervous and wedged between Carl Hiassen and some quasi-famous author whose name here I shall not reveal. I was pretty bad at public speaking in those days and sat there like a traffic cone. Our moderator was a dud, but Carl was a pure gent, trying to create a dialogue among us. Sensing my unease, he lobbed a few “what do you think?” softballs my way. One of them was: “Who do you write for?”
My mind blanked. I finally mumbled something into my mic about wanting to entertain readers, and maybe, if I was lucky, to emotional connect with them. Then I made what I thought was an okay joke: “And it wouldn’t be bad if I made a little money doing it.”
The audience, thank god, laughed. The quasi-famous author on my right grabbed my mic and said: “I don’t write for money. And I don’t write for anyone but myself.”
You know how when you’re in an awkward social situation and you think of a great comeback — two weeks later? What I should have said was “I think they call that literary self-abuse.” But I didn’t. Nobody said anything. Dead silence in the room. Mercifully, the moderator pulled the plug soon after.
I never forgot that author. She had a big name and a couple of big literary awards. She’s dead now, but you can still find her books on Amazon if you look hard. But I never forgot what she said that day,
What a bunch of bull-crap.
Who do you write for? Carl knew the right answer. All of you guys out there know the right answer. Sure, you write for yourself because it’s something you love doing. But it’s like playing the piano or gardening. Why play the piano if there is no one there to listen and be moved? Why toil in a garden unless the moods of passersby aren’t lifted by the roses they see?
And what is so wrong about wanting to make a living doing this? Even if it’s just to keep your dogs in Greenies.
So yeah, guys, write for yourself. It can make you feel dumb at times. It can make you feel wonderful at times. It humbles you, teaches you, heals you, Write because it makes you hear the beat of your own heart. But never, ever, forget that there is someone else out there who wants to hear you. Who might need to hear you. Maybe you’ll just make them chuckle. Or feel less lonely on a bad day. Or maybe you’ll change their life in some small way.
A couple years back, I had a story in a Mystery Writers of Americ anthology called “One Shot.” It was about a man who is emotionally crippled by a haunting childhood memory. The character and his best friend had been playing with dad’s revolver and the gun went off. The memory was, as often is the case for little kids, only half-there, obscured in a haze of pain, fear, and regret. But the adult character remembers the dead boy had been bullied as gay and he comes to realize the boy had killed himself. But a cabal of parents and priests had convinced him it was his fault.
I got an email about a year after the story was published. It was from a father whose gay son had shot himself. The writer told me the story had helped him come to grips with his own guilt and with his decision to leave his church. He thanked me for the story. Even as I write this, I can’t think of him without great emotion.
Don’t be afraid. Don’t be afraid to put yourself in your stories. And when you feel the time is right, don’t be afraid to put yourself and your stories out there. You need to connect.
I ran across this quote the other day, which is what clicked my memory of that poor lonely quasi-famous author, and what inspired this post. It’s from author Ursula K. Le Guin:
“The unread story is not a story. It is little marks on wood pulp. The reader, reading it, makes it live, a live thing, a story.”
Send yourself out into the world. Someone out there is waiting for you.
“[Y]ou write for yourself because it’s something you love doing.”
Actually, what I love is having written. John Mason Brown once said, “Writing is pleasant agony.” The pleasure-to-agony ratio is not always greater than one. Fortunately, the autonomous inner writer* within my mind loves exercising his creative muscle and forces me to write, regardless of the conscious discomfort. Every major breakthrough that he conceives, he transmits via a portal into my working memory, thus making it seem like it was my idea. I intend to give him credit in my next book, currently in progress.
“Don’t be afraid to put yourself in your stories.”
Clive James said, “Most first novels are disguised autobiographies.” But that’s not the whole truth. The truth is, ALL novels are autobiography. We just get better at disguising ourselves from ourselves and the reader.
* or “Guardienne”
Thanks JG….you could be reading my mind. I am also one of those “have written” writers. And I love your observation that we just get better at our disguises.
I do write for me, but I was definitely hoping that, out of the 9 billion people on the planet, a number of readers would find my stories enthralling – so that I would not feel like the only one who could like reading my version of an adult wish-fulfillment story.
I had found pieces of the story I wanted to read in various places, either in character, plot, or language – but never a story so right that I could just sink into it and let the marks on the page keep me up all night.
So I decided to fix that little karmic mistake, and write the thing. Twenty-four years later, it’s going well, with two out of three trilogy books written. That’s probably why it wasn’t already available – takes too long, requires a certain set of experiences.
When I’m sure it’s perfect, I’m going to step into its universe and never come out.
What I always find fascinating about our responses here is that we all have found — or are still searching for — the paths we need to the destinations we seek (in writing). So much variety in this. It’s…i dunno…sort of magical.
Maybe the question should be: “Who do you write for first?”
I definitely write for myself first. There are many genres people love that I would never be interested in writing. There are other people to fill those niches. We write what draws us. And when we write what we’re interested in, it’ll find it’s audience. And even if it doesn’t see the light of day in publication, it’s no less valued to the one who explored by writing it.
Writing is adventure. Who doesn’t like adventure?
Good way of looking at it…adventure. That resonates with me because I love to travel but I’m always moving a little too fast (for my husband’s taste at least) to see what’s around the next bend or down the next little street.
And yes, I agree we FIRST write for ourselves. If not, well, isn’t that blatant audience targeting? And that never works.
Your posts are always great, PJ, and this is no exception!
Hey there Meg! Great to see you drop in.
Last Friday someone I know (but not well) called me to tell me she stayed up until 4 a.m. reading my newest book Matters of the Heart. She said she read some parts aloud and read other passages more than once. I don’t share this to brag. This is an Amish romance (which “serious” writers love to diss). The story is about an auctioneer who loves his job, who loves working with his dad and granddad and brothers who are auctioneers. Who grew up wanting to do this job and nothing else. Then he gets throat cancer & can no longer do what he loves. He’s devastated & shakes his fist at the sky. As I often do with my loss of mobility & living with cancer. This acquaintance once had a beautiful singing voice. She sang at weddings, in the choir, sang solos, sang everywhere. Then she got cancer and lost her voice–which she thought was a gift from God. As she put it she couldn’t even sing a lullaby to her grandbaby. She too shook her fist at the sky. This story helped her even years later come to grips with her loss. I’ve had dozens of similar stories relating to The Year of Goodbyes & Hellos, a women’s fiction novel about a family dealing with a cancer diagnosis. I’m working out my own issues as I write, but I’m writing for those people who are going through similar circumstances and could use the company. I agree it’s all autobiographical in the end.
What a powerful testament, Kelly. It takes courage to use your own experiences in fiction but…and this is a big but…. also have the intelligence and craft to reshape them and make them feel universal so others find meaning in them. Congrats.
Terrific post, Kris! This is something I’ve spent some time thinking about. I write for readers who will enjoy a fun and at times funny twisty mysteries with quirky characters. My 1980s Meg Booker librarian mysteries are very much an homage to a bygone era when the card catalog was queen of the library, checkouts were stamped with date dues, and books were front and center.
Card catalogs! Whenever I used to check out books, I’d look at that yellowed card slipped in the back sleeve and imagine who before me had found this book — and why!
And shoot, never discount the power of humor. I was feeling low the other day and a friend brought me one of David Sedaris’s books. Brought me out of my funk.
I got a copy of The Omnibus of Crime edited by Dorothy Sayers circa 1929 through interlibrary loan largely at what I saw here a couple of days ago. Someone mentioned they’d found a copy of this.
It came from the library of the Emmaus Bible College library in Dubuque, Iowa and the last person who checked it out was Anna Sturm on December 3, 2014.
Ha! That’s so cool. I wrote about the Omnibus in my previous post because I found a copy in an old barn sale. Mine was signed by Clarence W. Bonwell, Aug 1929.
I’m going to take a deep dive. I’d like to find my own personal copy.
Thanks for this…
Best part?
…Write because it makes you hear the beat of your own heart. But never, ever, forget that there is someone else out there who wants to hear you. Who might need to hear you. Maybe you’ll just make them chuckle. Or feel less lonely on a bad day. Or maybe you’ll change their life in some small way.
That’s why I write. First to explore my own heart and mind, then to maybe, just maybe give back to the world I live in for a fraction of time.
That’s it in a nutshell. Do it for yourself then pass it on.
Important question, Kris. We sometimes talk about Why We Write, but I don’t recall having discussed Who We Write For. It made me think. (Always a good thing. 🙂 )
I write mysteries because I love the process of solving problems, and I want to give readers an interesting and thought-provoking challenge about the search for truth. But my books also acknowledge complex relationships that some readers have been touched by.
For example, the 27-year-old protagonist in my first novel, The Watch on the Fencepost, discovers she has an older half-sister that no-one had ever told her about. Her sibling had been adopted as an infant, and the portag’s parents, now deceased, had kept it a secret. The novel explores the issues of adoption and forgiveness as well as the complexities of parental love.
Although my goal was to produce a good mystery, a number of readers let me know they were emotionally touched by the strength of the sisterhood bonds represented in the book. Several people who had experience with adoptions, including a close business associate whom I didn’t know had been adopted, felt their story had been told. I was honored and grateful to have received those messages.
Excellent. Years ago, when I was a reporter and before hunting for your birth parents was legal, I wrote a feature story about a young woman trying to find her mom. I don’t know if she ever succeeded because her journey was long and hard. But the emotion behind the struggle and search for identity was so poignant. I’m sure your story struck many chords.
Great post. Yes, it’s a continuous input/output loop. You want to express yourself, so you write and edit your work for the deep satisfaction of self-expression. But you’re expressing yourself to others as well, and that pushes you even harder to do your best.
Win/win.
Yeah, exactly, an emotional loop. And then, if you are lucky, a reader writes to tell you what it meant. The loop continues.
I once had a reader tell me she’d struggled with the problem the heroine of my story struggled with (My heroine struggled with forgiveness and not being enough because of something she overheard her mother say. ) and seeing how she overcame it, showed the reader she could as well. I think that’s why I write–to make a difference, to show others they aren’t the only one struggling with a particular problem.
And I write to tell a story that my heart wants to tell.
Good way to put it…the story your heart wants to tell, That is the element that makes for authentic fiction. Doesn’t it just kill you when you hear someone say they don’t read fiction because it isn’t true?
Kris,
I love your posts! Thank you.
Thanks D. That means a lot. As you know, writers (even TKZ writers) write in a vacuum. It helps to hear from folks.
It’s a good question and I don’t know that I’d ever thought about it much. But now considering it, I’m thinking along the lines of Descartes’ maxim, I think therefore I am.
I write therefore I am.
It’s a measure of immortality as well. My friend Chris has self published three books of his short stories and he insists on hard copies because he says that someday in the future when he has turned to dust some as yet unborn person is going to find that book on a shelf somewhere and read it and be moved and know that he existed. That may not be possible with e-files.
I hadn’t thought of that — the long-range physical viability of tree books — until you mentioned it. Yeah, it will probably be possible to still get ebooks 50 years from now — or whatever form is coming when we’re all gone. But man, nothing can replace holding a real book in your hands, esp an old book that still bears the imprints, the DNA, of those who held it before. Thanks for commenting.