how to train a writer

"When you are a Bear of Very Little Brain, and you Think of Things, you find sometimes that a Thing which seemed very Thingish inside you is quite different when it gets out into the open and has other people looking at it."                                                                                                                           
                                                                                                                                        — A.A. Milne

Positive reinforcement.

They say it's the proper way to train dogs and children. (Doesn't work too well for soldiers or politicians, though.)

I think it might work for writers, too.

I haven't been a writer for long. (Or, perhaps, it's more accurate to say that I haven't called myself a writer for long.) But even in such a short span of time, it's occurred to me that a writer's medium is ink, paper, and ego. We're violently insecure creatures, we writers. After all, we are putting ourselves down on paper, not just words. Our most intimate feelings, fondest wishes, darkest desires, and wildest imaginings all appear on the printed page. It's only natural that we'd feel shy about baring so much of our psyche for all the world to see.

But it isn't only our imagination that's on trial: it's our ability to translate our imagination into words on paper. Dreaming up an idea is only half the battle. (I could go into the planning vs. pantsing debate here, but that's a blog post for another day.) After giving mental form to our brainchildren, we must make them tangible. Somehow those impulses, feelings, and thoughts must wend their merry way from our brain to our fingers, diffuse through our skin onto the keyboard, and pop up magically on the page (or screen) in front of us.

That is where the real insecurities manifest themselves.

An idea, a paragraph, or a sentence which seemed so real and true and good and pure and perfect in our heads can fail miserably to materialize on the page. Distilling haphazard neural impulses into English isn't quite as easy as our favorite writers make it seem. Something inevitably gets lost in translation. As Stephen King puts it, the best writers are the ones who can conceive a viable idea—discover a fossil, as he puts it—and then, through hard work, persistence, critical thinking, and hefty revision, tease most of that fossil out of the ground without breaking, chipping or scratching it. You're never going to get all of it. But with practice, you can retrieve everything important.

I think it's that arena where I'm most lacking as a writer. I could dream up good story ideas all day—one pops into my head every hour or so. But putting 'em down on paper is another matter. Whether it's because I haven't practiced enough, or haven't read widely enough, or just haven't had that seminal burst of inspiration...I'm not sure of the reason, but I have awesome difficulty in translating my ideas into words. I can think of a good story, but not write one.

I've been meditating lately about my difficulties as a writer, and my shortcomings: all the things I wish I could do better, like the professionals. I wish I could bestir myself to write more. Seems like every time I feel I should write something I inevitably wander off to my books, games, movies, or introspective evening walks.

Strike One: Not working hard (or often) enough.

Even if I do start something, I'll inevitably bang a few thousand words out, then stop for the day. I'll read some rewarding piece of fiction by Clarke or van Vogt or Asimov. I'll take another look at my paltry work, and delete it in disgust.

Strike Two: Not having enough confidence as a writer.

Let's say I even finish something (long odds, now that you've seen what I'm up against). Suddenly, as the last word is typed, and I sit back and look at the project as a whole, I'll become afraid of it. It'll mutate into a monster, a hideous abomination of unpolished writing, undeveloped themes, flaccid characters, and puerile premise. On the instant, my lovingly crafted story becomes an unconquerable mess. Self-destructive thoughts spin through my mind: Yuck. This is terrible. There's no way I'll be able to fix this. Robert Heinlein couldn't salvage this junk. There's so much to read over, to repair, to tweak, to trim, to perfect. I'll never finish. Hell, I don't even know where to begin. I think I'll just leave it for later.

Strike Three: Not having the persistence, or courage, to edit and revise (let alone submit).

Noticing a pattern here?

Fear.

All of my shortcomings as a writer stem, fundamentally, from fear. Insecurity. Lack of confidence. Inexperience.

I understand that I am afraid. I've blogged about it before. (Go back and look for the specific post if you want; I'm too distracted to get up a link.)

Now, that begs the question: since I know what my problem is, how do I go about solving it?

Well, a little affirmation would be nice. It'd be great if somebody (preferably a discerning science fiction fan) would come up behind me while I was typing, look over my shoulder, and say "Cool idea," or "Nice turn of phrase there, chief," or "Wow!  I never thought about it that way," or "Hurry up, I wanna know what happens next!"

I caught myself thinking these exact thoughts this morning, as I revisited a science fiction novelette that I had submitted to Fantasy & Science Fiction magazine, which had been rejected for "failing to excite the interest of the reader."

And then it hit me: maybe the reason I'm so afraid, insecure, and under-confident about my work is that, well, I've never received any positive reinforcement. Nobody in a position of authority has ever told me "Well done, keep up the good work." My friends and family have read my drivel and told me they liked it, that it was well-written and engaging, but as kind as their comments are, they're not expert. The editors of sci-fi magazines have been reading sci-fi for years (and often write the stuff themselves). Moreover they are well-informed where their readers' tastes are concerned, and know exactly what'll turn an audience on or off. And so far, none of my stuff has been up to code. And it's been rejected. Flat-out.

So maybe, subconsciously (for I would never think something as insecure or foolish as this out loud), I've gotten the idea that I'm not a good writer, and that I shouldn't even bother trying.

Amazing, huh?

Fancy your humble Vaunter thinking a thing like that!

Hell, I know I'm a good writer. I like what I do. I have a masterful command of the English language, and I can turn a phrase on a dime. It's just funny what the lack of positive reinforcement can do to a person's mind. Just because Gordon Van Gelder has never written me an enthusiastic letter praising my brilliant work, and begging to be the sole recipient of any future fictive endeavors, I somehow assumed that I wasn't that good. And that lack of self-esteem and confidence might've proven absolutely debilitating if I hadn't caught it in time.

I'm glad I had this epiphany. Praise is not a shot of espresso (or adrenaline). It's the icing on the cake, a pleasant glow to bask in after one has achieved something...usually not the something that one expected to achieve. If the famous writers of sci-fi had set about their work with popularity and acclaim in mind, and refused to budge without it, then the annals of science fiction would be barren indeed, if even extant.

I just have to keep perspective. I need to look at every fresh project as a clean slate, and to give it my all (and fix its shortcomings in the revision phase). I need to keep working, keep learning, keep practicing, keep writing. I need to remember that there is victory even in the attempt. I mustn't let my fears and doubts weigh me down. Nothing worthwhile in history was ever achieved without effort—or fear. The winner is distinguished from the loser not by his lack of fear, but by his refusal to bow down to it.

And so, cheers to you, fellow writers. Cheers from the catbird seat. Your brother-in-arms is out here, still endeavoring to craft something worth an editor's second glance. Keep calm and carry on.

POSTSCRIPT:
For the final irony, I was listening to AC/DC while typing this post. The last song played before I finished was "Hell Ain't A Bad Place To Be."