Rasmenia

“What is a teacher? I’ll tell you: it isn’t someone who teaches something, but someone who inspires the student to give of her best in order to discover what she already knows.” -Paulo Coelho

“It is the supreme art of the teacher to awaken joy in creative expression and knowledge.” -Albert Einstein

*

I sat perfectly still in my seat at the back of the classroom, listening carefully as our teacher, Mr. O’Donnell, gave us our assignment: write a one-page essay explaining what you would do with only one day left to live.

There, at my desk in the far back corner, next to the little sink & the pencil sharpener, in front of the poster of Prince & the Revolution, I tried to contain my giddiness.  Sure, I had written boring essays for school before.  I had written some stories, too… but no one had ever seen any of those.

“That’s not all,” Mr. O’Donnell said from the front of the room.  “After everyone’s handed in their paper, you’ll come up here & read your story to the class.”

That last bit reigned my giddiness in pretty quick, but I was still excited.

I went home & wrote all about what I would do with my last day on the planet, where I would go & who I would spend it with.

A few days later, I sat in my little desk as my fellow 6th graders approached the front of the room & read their stories, one by one.  Some of them were sad.  Others were boring.  But, when one kid read his hilarious account of trying to commit suicide with a butter knife, I began to feel a little intimidated & a little bummed out that I wasn’t funny.

Then… it was my turn.  I stood in front of everyone & told them how I would fly to Venice, Italy & float alone on a Gondola, reflecting on my life while taking in every detail of the city.  To my surprise, Mr. O’Donnell stopped me every so often, saying things like, “Wow!  What a great line!”, or “Nice phrase!  Sorry, sorry… go on.”

Later, when Mr. O’Donnell returned my essay to me with the big red “A” scribbled across the top, he leaned down on my little desk, looked me right in the eye & said, “You really should think about being a writer, you know.”

Well… I did know, but until that moment, didn’t have anyone else who knew.  I had asked my mother a few months before if I could take a writing class at a local learning center, but was told that it would be a waste of money, as I had no special writing ability.

A couple of months later, it was time for 6th grade graduation, with the big award ceremony in the tiny gymnasium/cafeteria.  I expected nothing as I watched the other kids walking up to meet Mr. O’Donnell as he handed them certificates for perfect attendance & good grades.  I got sick a few times.  My grades were average.  I was just waiting for it to be over.

I was caught completely by surprise when I was called up to accept an award.  I felt special when, from his place at the podium, Mr. O’Donnell said that I was the only person to receive it.  He handed me the certificate with the little blue ribbon stapled to it.  I looked down & read it: demonstrated writing ability.

The years rolled on.  Somehow, I went from being that dorky 11 year-old kid & became a juvenile delinquent, writing bad poetry, smoking pot & reading Kerouac, taking LSD & listening to The Doors in between arrests & trips to jail or rehab.  From time to time, I’d take out that yellow paper with the blue ribbon stapled to it.  Things were bad, but I was going to be a writer.

Luckily, that was a phase – aside from the Kerouac & The Doors, of course, because they are permanently with me. As I became a mess of an angry, blue collar 20-something, I was writing.  Insecure about it, to be sure, but I was writing.  Was any of it good?  Not really.  At least, not by my current standards.  But, the desire – the need – to write was still there.  And I still had this piece of paper reminding me that I could.

There were long periods when I wrote nothing.  Eventually, I would open a drawer & looking up at me, reminding me that I should have been writing something – anything – was that yellow paper.  Echoing in my head, faintly, I would hear Mr. O’Donnell’s voice telling me again, “You really should think about being a writer, you know.”

I’ve been meaning to write this post for a couple of months, now & just hadn’t gotten around to it for one reason or another.  However, now turned out to be the perfect time.  I’ve had a couple of small publishing successes recently.  One of my stories is scheduled for publication in the latest issue of the literary journal, The Legendary.  Another one is scheduled for publication in Big Pulp in November.

Artistic validation is valuable.  It’s satisfying & is an excellent excuse to drink a lot of champagne.  Having someone read your words is even more valuable, more satisfying & is an even better excuse to drink champagne.

But… sitting here at the desk in my writing space, next to me is this piece of yellow paper that has lived among my most prized possessions for the last 25 years.  The blue ribbon is still stapled to it.  The ink has faded slightly & maybe the paper has gotten a little more yellow than it once was.

It still has just as much power as it did when Mr. O’Donnell handed it to that skinny little kid in the gymnasium.  No… that’s not true.  Its power has definitely grown.  This piece of paper helped to keep me writing & provided me with tangible proof that someone believed in my ability to do something.  All it took was for one person to believe in me.  Later, I eventually believed in myself.  Ok, it was a long while later because I’m fucking slow.  Shut up.

Regardless of how much – or how little – success I have as a writer, it doesn’t matter.  Well, it does… but only to a certain point.  Nothing I get from writing is going to be any cooler than this yellow piece of paper.

But, the more excuses to drink champagne I have, the better.

“Writer’s block? I’ve heard of this. This is when a writer cannot write, yes?  Then that person isn’t a writer anymore.  I’m sorry, but the job is getting up in the fucking morning and writing for a living.”   — Warren Ellis

“There’s no such thing as writer’s block.  That was invented by people in California who couldn’t write.”  — Terry Pratchett

*

Here’s the thing about writer’s block: it’s bullshit.  If someone says to me, “I have writer’s block,” then what I hear is: “I’m not writing”.

So many people believe that writer’s block is real.  Some even believe that it’s a disease.  A disease.  Sorry, you don’t have a disease.  Cancer is a disease.  Scurvy is a disease.  Your blank page is not a symptom of a medical condition.  You do not have a disease.  You have laziness.  You have fear or insecurity.  Perhaps you’re out of ideas.  Or, maybe you just can’t write.  Maybe, deep down, you don’t really want to write at all.

There was a time, some years ago, whenever someone would ask me what I was writing – or if I was writing anything at all – & I would usually answer with, “Oh, lately I’ve been battling this fucking writer’s block…”.

It was bullshit.  Complete & utter BULLSHIT.

So, why did I say it, then?

I was writing.  I was writing almost every day, in fact.  Was I happy with what I was writing?  Well, some of it.  The problem had nothing to do with what was on the page – the problem was me.

At the risk of sounding like a whiny shit, it’s necessary to provide just a bit of background, here.  Now, while I have been writing various things since I was just a wee tiny Ras, I’ve been mostly on my own as far as my own personal writing path is concerned.  I didn’t have much support with it from family when I was young & to this day, I still want to puke when I look back & think of friends reading something I wrote, laughing to the point of tears, wrinkling the pages that I poured my sweat & soul into, orating in loud & mocking voices.

After a while, I stopped showing those pages to people.  I stopped telling people that I was writing… I stopped saying the word “writer” when talking about myself.  I still sat at the desk, banging on the keys.  I still carried a notebook & pen around with me.  The stack of notebooks grew higher.  The desk drawer of stories grew full.

It was my dirty little secret: I was a writer.

Like most dirty little secrets, it got out.  To be more accurate, it escaped.  This isn’t the kind of thing that you can just keep hidden away forever.  Eventually, it is going to make itself known.  People are going to find out.

That… & I just stopped giving a shit what people thought, or whether or not they were supportive.

But, I still didn’t know what my goals were.  I hadn’t yet decided what kind of writer I was.  I hadn’t yet grown comfortable enough with my writing voice to let it shout from the rooftops.  I was an adult, but my writing self was in its insecure, adolescent phase.

Ergo, when someone inquired as to what kind of a writer I was, or what I was writing, it was much easier to use the excuse, “I have writer’s block”.

Of course, at the time, I didn’t realize how fucking lame & amateur this sounded.

This is why I know that writer’s block is sometimes just a term that we use for that monster under the bed, that fear & insecurity that the writing just isn’t good enough – that we just aren’t good enough.  That cliché that says “you can’t bullshit a bullshitter”, well… it’s true & I call bullshit on this so-called “writer’s block”.

*

“People have writer’s block not because they can’t write, but because they despair of writing eloquently.”  -Anna Quindlen

“I think writer’s block is simply the dread that you are going to write something horrible. But as a writer, I believe that if you sit down at the keys long enough, sooner or later something will come out.”  -Roy Blount Jr.

“If I waited for perfection, I would never write a word.”  -Margaret Atwood

*

One of the most absurd reasons for writer’s block that I’ve heard is, “I’m waiting for inspiration”.  Waiting?  Seriously?  So… part of being a writer – if I understand this concept correctly – consists of sitting around on your doughy ass while waiting for this “inspiration” to just come careening out of the goddamn sky, where it will eventually come crashing through your skull, into your idle & waiting brain.

Well… I’m pretty certain that nothing is going to be able to hit you in the head – it seems that it’s planted too far up your ass, where it’s busy romanticizing the notion of “inspiration”.  Get a grip.  Writing is work, not divine “inspiration”.  Ok, I’ve got to move away from this one because… well, really, I could mock the shit out of this one all day long.  These jokes will just keep writing themselves into infinity if I don’t lay down the kibosh.  It’s just that retarded.

*

“Inspiration is a word used by people who aren’t really doing anything.”  — Nick Cave

“Writer’s block is a condition that affects amateurs and people who aren’t serious about writing. So is the opposite, namely inspiration, which amateurs are also very fond of. Putting it another way: a professional writer is someone who writes just as well when they’re not inspired as when they are. “  — Philip Pullman

*

Some people complain that they have writer’s block because they’ve “run out of ideas”.  I have to admit that I do not understand this.  I’m assuming that this has something to do with the “waiting for inspiration” crap, but I just can’t see how anyone can get anything written at all by simply loafing around waiting for ideas, inspiration & magical fairy godmothers.

Or… perhaps they’re just worried that their idea for a novel or story is a dreadfully shitty one.

To be honest, your idea may very well be shitty.  We’ve all had shitty ideas.  Trust me – I’ve got a rather embarrassing King Arthur story from 15 years ago hidden away to prove it.  Some of those shitty ideas evolve into brilliant ones.  Or, they simply teach us what not to do… like staying away from horrible fantasy fiction, for example.

If it weren’t for terrible story ideas, I would never have realized my ability for writing humor.

The point is, a shitty idea is no reason to wuss out with that whiny writer’s block excuse.  Besides, the ideas may be there & you were too busy bitching about your imaginary “block” to notice it.

*

“You get ideas from daydreaming. You get ideas from being bored. You get ideas all the time. The only difference between writers and other people is we notice when we’re doing it.”  -Neil Gaiman

“If you’re going to be a writer, the first essential is just to write. Do not wait for an idea. Start writing something and the ideas will come. You have to turn the faucet on before the water starts to flow.”  -Louis L’Amour

“There is no such thing as writer’s block for writers whose standards are low enough.”  -William Stafford

*

Now, am I saying all of this to encourage you to write?  Not at all.  I’m not tough-loving you.  It does not matter to me if you write or not.  Whatever is keeping you from writing, it’s within you.  You can fix it, or you can give up & go do something else.  Yes… it really is that simple.

If you’re a writer, then write.

If you’re a writer, then nothing is going to keep you from writing.

If you’re not a writer, then grow a pair – admit it to yourself, shut the hell up & go do whatever it is that you were meant to do.

So You Want To Be A Writer

if it doesn’t come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don’t do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it for money or
fame,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don’t do it.
if it’s hard work just thinking about doing it,
don’t do it.
if you’re trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.
if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you’re not ready.

don’t be like so many writers,
don’t be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don’t be dull and boring and
pretentious, don’t be consumed with self-
love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don’t add to that.
don’t do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don’t do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don’t do it.

when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.

- Charles Bukowski

“Write to please just one person. If you open a window and make love to the world, so to speak, your story will get pneumonia.” -Kurt Vonnegut, Bagombo Snuff Box: Uncollected Short Fiction

“As a writer, you can’t allow yourself the luxury of being discouraged and giving up when you are rejected, either by agents or publishers. You absolutely must plow forward.” -Augusten Burroughs

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Everything that I’m about to tell you is completely true, except for the parts that aren’t, but there aren’t any of those, so let’s just get to it.

Many writers, as you may or may not know, tend to suffer from a puzzling paradox of a fragile ego combined with a righteous arrogance.  We constantly battle fear & self doubt, yet we still manage to believe in ourselves & our words to the very end.  Day to day, depending on the weather, intensity of hangover, or how we feel about other people that day, we may feel rather insecure about what we’ve written.  The next day, we may likely feel as though we can get nothing short of brilliance on the page & anyone who questions it, or suggests that we are putting out anything else will likely be answered with righteous indignation – or profanity & a busted whiskey bottle.  You know, whatever you’re into.

Of course by, “we”, I mean “me”.

At the same time, criticism is absolutely necessary.   There is really no phrase that does a writer more harm than when a reader shrugs & says, “Yeah… it’s good”.

You see, this doesn’t motivate anyone to aspire to greater heights with their work.  It can fool us into thinking that we’re good & don’t really need to improve.  Or, maybe we know that we need to improve, but just telling us that “it’s good”, doesn’t really point out the dull bits that need polishing up.

Just as harmful is for someone to shake their head & say, “No… this is complete shit.  You have no talent, no ability & you should give up now, because… YOU ARE NOT A WRITER.”

Any variation of this sentiment can sting.  It can wound, cut & scar.  However, it doesn’t have to.  If someone expresses this sentiment to you, there are endless appropriate comments.  A couple of which are:

You’re wrong.

Fuck you.  (I’m a fan of classics.)

So it was, several weeks ago that Olivier & I hopped in our car & made our way out of the suburbs & up to Montmartre.  We were armed with a bag full of various fromages, a bottle of red… & the first half of my manuscript, a short story collection of literary fiction that I’ve been working on.

The plan was that a friend of a friend – an Englishman & “editor” residing in Montmartre – who would also be attending brunch that day would have a look at it.  He’d proofread it & provide a critique of my work.  He of course, would be doing this as a favor… for a friend of a friend.

I handed him the 50 or so pages.  He flipped through them.  “So,” he asked.  “What is your target audience?  Americans, or English-speaking in general?”

“Well, English speaking in general,” I said.  “I don’t care where they’re from.”

“The reason I ask is that I noticed several ‘Americanisms’.”

Actually… that last bit he said not to me, but to my husband.  In French.

“Well,” I said.  “I don’t really notice those very much when I’m writing… since I’m American.”

And the brunch went on.  Everyone ate… & drank.  Then drank some more.  Eventually, the time came for Olivier & I to make our way back to the suburbs.

“There’s really no way he could say anything bad about your stories,” Olivier said as we sat in the Sunday evening traffic jam out of Paris.

“You really think so?  I mean… he’s been living in France for so long… & he seemed rather, uh… aged.  I just wonder how hip he is to contemporary American fiction.”

“Bah.  I wouldn’t worry about it,” he said.  “I’ve read everything that you’ve written.  It’s awesome shit.  Don’t you worry.”

Two days later, I received an email from this “editor”.  (Yes, I’m using this term loosely.)  I read over his email & read things such as:

“Your short stories.  I have read them to the bitter end…”

“I don’t have many nice things to say about what I discovered.”

“Writing in the personal mode, recounting one’s experiences or phantasms, is rarely a good recipe for writing a successful piece.”

“…you will tend to reveal more of your inner-self than you would like.  This is mostly what you are doing, baring your egocentric, frustrated, anti-social  being which is not at ease with the world…”

So… I took a little time to consider this…

1 – Writing that recounts personal experiences isn’t any good.  Fortunately, there are plenty of literary flops to reinforce that statement.  Here’s just a few examples of the train wreck that can be caused by writing from personal experience:

2 – Writing from personal experience will expose bits of your inner-self to the world.  I wonder if that has ever occurred to any other writers before.  I’m sure it is as much of a surprise for you as it was for me.

“A person who publishes a book appears willfully in public with his pants down.” -Edna St. Vincent Millay

“The writer is committed when he plunges to the very depths of himself with the intent to disclose, not his individuality, but his person in the complex society that conditions and supports him.” -Jean-Paul Sartre

3 – I’m frustrated, anti-social & not at ease with the world.  Um… so?  Well, I suppose that it’s true that these are incredibly negative traits & any writer who’s ever been frustrated, anti-social, or ill-at-ease with the world has been doomed to a life of utter & humiliating failure.  If you’ve ever wondered what failure looks like, it looks kind of like this:

Of course, any fool is also aware that any fictional characters displaying any traits or sentiments that can be construed as “anti-social” or “misanthropic”, will also be big, messy sacks of fail…

Then, there is this epic failure, which many have heard of:

Now… am I comparing myself, or my writing to any of the artists, works or characters listed here?  No, of course not.  I’m simply using them to illustrate a point.  If you don’t see the point, then you should probably close your internet browser now & go brush your teeth with a fucking brick because you’re an idiot.

So, after all of this advice, the “editor” goes on with various & boring insults, all of which are not listed here, because like I said – boring.

“…your work does not incite anybody to feel anything but sorry for the writer/storyteller which you are.”

“There is nothing likeable about your characters, including yourself.”

Now, I think that the “editor” may have been a little confused here, as I am not one of my characters, but rather, the writer.  That’s not the same thing.  I suppose that he’s just trying to say in his own charming way that he doesn’t like me.  He wouldn’t be the first.  He won’t be the last.  In fact, I’m pretty sure that there is a group holding weekly meetings.  If anyone has the info as to the time & place of these hate meetings, that’d be helpful, as I think you may have a new member.

Basically, what I got was Word document with 1/2 a page of amateur psychoanalysis, telling me why this grouchy old man thinks that I’m an asshole.

“Please do not send these manuscripts in to any editor for approval, on the risk that you will get an even nastier(polite) refusal like: “We regret to inform you that the subject matter does not quite conform to our present editorial policy”.”

Now, when I initially handed my 50 pages over to the “editor”, I did use tricky words & phrases such as, “first draft”, “rough” & “unedited”.  Since the small publishing company that he runs is in no way suited for literary fiction or American realism, I was in no way submitting anything for his “approval”.  This was a friend of a friend, looking over my work, to offer a critique.  At the same time, since these were not polished, I wasn’t submitting them to anyone for approval, as they simply were not ready for it.

Evidently, a few wires got crossed.

Evidently, if I submit anything to anyone & receive a standard rejection, it actually means, “you suck”.

Evidently, “any editor” will view things exactly the way that he does.

My opinion… this “editor” has no clue on how to critique a piece of writing.  First of all, name-calling, personal insults & criticism & theories as to the state of the writer’s psyche shouldn’t come into it.  Why is that?  Because it’s critiquing the writer, not the writing.

Naturally, I was a little pissed off at first.  But, after I had the time to cool off from his blindside attack, I got to thinking…

- I’ve had nothing but positive feedback peppered with all sorts of flattering adjectives on the same work from the members of my writer’s workshop, which is filled with amateur writers, as well as very seasoned writers with several writing credits & published novels.  These people know writing & are not retards.

- It was apparent that this “editor” had little actual “editing” experience & was profoundly out of touch with certain literary movements & styles.

- A “friend of a friend” who is doing something for you as a favor to someone else may not want to do it & as a result, may act like a cockbite rather than politely declining.

- Some people are just cockbites.

Of course, I did reply to his email, thanking him for suffering the tortuous affair that is reading my writing & told him that “my work just isn’t for everyone”.  Then I realized something else… something far beyond groovy.

These stories that brought forth this man’s ire… well, they’re all about the ugly insides of average people.  The fact that it pissed someone off & disgusted them… well, I have to admit… that made me very, very happy.

It showed me that I’m on the right track.

So, here’s the point of my long, winding post – you knew that there would be a point, right?  Well, here it is, goddamit, so fucking pay attention:

- If you’re a writer, then fucking write, that’s all.  If someone tells you, “I don’t like it”, “This is a piece of shit”, “You’re a sick fuck”, or… even worse, “Yeah, it’s um… good.”, then use it.  Use that disdain to fuel your writing engine to keep going.  Encouragement is great & all, but spite motivates a hell of a lot better.  Prove them wrong.

- Most people that would actually be a jerk enough to knock you down are likely falling victim to their own self-doubt.  Yeah, your mom always said that those kids were picking on you because they’re just jealous.  Well, there’s a reason that she kept telling you that.  Listen to your mother.

- Keep in mind that many people will read your work who just aren’t suited for what you’re doing.  They may not like or may not be familiar with the genre or style of your writing.  Maybe it’s not your writing that they don’t like, maybe you should just be showing your splatterpunk novel to someone besides that girl who is always reading that Christian literature, dig?

- Negative reception to something that you’ve written doesn’t mean that you write poorly… it could mean just the opposite & perhaps the reader just isn’t ready for that yet.  There are plenty of well-known cases of this same thing occurring.

- If you’re not involved with some type of writer’s workshop, get your ass into one NOW.  The support & feedback that is given & received in these groups has a value beyond measure.

- Some people are just cockbites.

I feel I should mention that the “editor” also made a comment regarding my ineptitude when it comes to basic vocabulary… specifically that I use the word “tirade” incorrectly.

I’m not sure, but I think that I just wrote one.

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“Critics constantly complain that writers are lacking in standards, yet they themselves seem to have no standards other than personal prejudice for literary criticism.”   – William S. Burroughs, ‘A Review of the Reviewers

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