Monday, June 13, 2011
So it seems that the moral of the week (in the US, at least) is this: if you are going to send pictures of your undergarments around the internet, make sure they aren’t grey and distinctly unstylish.
I’ve found myself transfixed by this very contemporary, cautionary tale of personal and professional disaster. When we pass a highway pile-up, we have to fight that strange urge to slow down and look. Why? Perhaps because we need to reassert that we’re gloriously, mysteriously alive – and that today was not OUR day to die. And when I saw that a guy who appears to be smart, intelligent, destined for success, could be brought down by clicking on the wrong little box on Twitter – Reply rather than Direct Message – it made me exhale with relief. It wasn’t me. But it could have been – and it could have been you.
Doh, I don’t mean we’re all tempted to send knicker-pictures to virtual strangers. I’m not talking about morality or indecency or misuse of government equipment. I’m just saying, we are all only a click away from making idiots of ourselves online.
I’ve not yet made a huge, walloping, catastrophic online blunder, but I’ve been very close to those who have. Like a colleague some years ago, whose pod was just across the aisle from mine. When a pompous, bossy senior manager sent out one of her famous ‘all user’ emails – telling everyone off for some misdemeanor – he wrote a stunningly rude response, intended for close friends. Only problem was – he clicked Reply instead of Forward. Ever seen the Ride of the Valkyrie approaching you?
Or what about the publisher of great repute who forwarded an email to colleagues telling them what she REALLY thought about this particular author and his manuscript. Only she didn’t – Forward, I mean. One mouse click in the wrong spot and her diatribe went straight back to the (very sensitive) author.
But it gets worse, doesn’t it. Because now we can shoot off 140-character streams of consciousness any place and any time, thanks to Blackberry and iPhone apps, or Twittelator for iPad. Buttering a bagel? Refilling your wine glass? Taking a break from washing the car? Bam, we’ve clicked and it’s gone. But how much were we concentrating and which box did we click?
Some time ago, Greenhouse turned down a potential client because of their online profile. [Now you’re all thinking IT WAS ME! Because I understand writerly paranoia, I’ll just say it was some time in the last 3 years, and the writer came from either North America or UK/Commonwealth. So no point trying to guess!] The individual in question wrote well, but what they were saying online was scary – angry, bitter, neurotic, and needy. If you’re going public about how much you hate your life and most people in it, how might you treat your agent if we don’t delight you every minute of every day?
Then there’s the writer who announced online that they’d already got EIGHT full manuscripts out with agents (so why should I bother to ask for it? The others got there before me), and the one who documented every one of her multitudinous rejections (and then sent me a query). Folks, you’ve got to be careful.
If you blog, you aren’t dropping a line to your best friend or confiding in a private journal. You are putting yourself permanently into the ether for agents and editors to find you. The internet octopus has long tentacles, very few degrees of separation lie between us, and even if someone doesn’t Follow you, they may Follow me, and so on.
I’m ambivalent about social networking. I love it for its fun, its companionship, and the easy-reach information it provides. I’ve signed at least one client because of Facebook, and I owe it for the return of my beautiful coat, lost at Bologna airport and returned thanks to a friendship sustained by FB.
I enjoy seeing what’s happening on Twitter. Standing at a Departures board in a deserted airport late at night, thousands of miles from family and home, a Tweet from an acquaintance can feel like a hand reaching out from some great existential loneliness.
But it makes me nervous too. I get antsy when scores of people I’ve never seen or heard of want to Friend me on Facebook. How should I feel about strangers scrolling through my family photos? Am I right to be wary or am I just being overly precious?
I want to be fascinating and meaningful on Twitter – but what to say and how much? I’d love to supply you hourly with fabulous links to important industry articles that will enhance your knowledge and writing journey. But the truth is, I just don’t have time – in fact, I barely have time to cook the dinner. And do you really want to know that there’s a new family of fledglings cheeping in our birdhouse?
I’m sure you have similar feelings to me. How much is enough, how much is too much, and what counts as a mistake? I can help you a little.
Generally, avoid documenting anything about your querying or subsequent submission processes. Play your cards close to your chest and cultivate your poker face. Your agent, if you have one, will love you for that, because it leaves she/he able to do their job – selling your book - with maximum freedom. It will also lower your stress levels because thousands of people won’t be watching as you ride a potential rollercoaster to deal or no deal.
An elderly member of my family really hated to hear gossip. Very solemnly he would intone, ‘Is it true, is it necessary, is it helpful? Of course, I would roll my eyes. But nowadays those words are often in my mind as I consider whether to say something – or not. Of course, if we all stuck rigidly to all three criteria there would BE no social networking because the whole fun of it is that it’s as fast moving as a babbling brook, whirling us ever onwards.
And yet maybe there’s something in that old saying. The Times of London today exposed the risks of jury trials collapsing due to jurors increasingly tweeting/status-updating verdicts or canvassing support from other jurors. And it’s definitely true that in the books business there are times when the best thing to say (online) is nothing at all.
I suspect a certain congressman, and his Underpants of Doom, would concur.
1) An old-fashioned means of communication - Cornwall, England 2) Cannonballs, Fredericksburg - enough said.
Sunday, June 05, 2011
Firstly - this post is illustrated with book jackets from three just published - or about to be published - Greenhouse authors. Relevant to my topic? Not really, except that all three authors (Amanda Cockrell, Sarah Aronson, Harriet Goodwin) have, at different times, been both critiquer and critiqued, so it’s a neat segue to what I really want to write about. Which is . . . .
Critiques – you know, those short one-on-ones agents/editors/published authors do with new writers, usually at conferences. Love them or loathe them?
I’ve done (ie, given) lots of critiques this year, at a variety of conferences, and some of you will already be bracing yourselves for maybe your first-ever critique at the SCBWI summer conference in LA this August.
How scary is it to present your precious baby (aka manuscript) to the hawk eyes of an industry insider for 15/20 excruciating minutes? I bet it’s awful. You’ve tended and nurtured this frail little shoot for months, maybe years, and suddenly someone you don’t know, whose very name engenders acute anxiety (you’ve read about them in PW! They do deals on Publishers Marketplace!), comes along pawing and picking at every treasured word. Don’t they realize your self-confidence is even more fragile than your plotting?
You have my sympathy – and, dare I say, empathy. I also have surprising news for you. Critiques aren’t easy for the critiquer either.
WHAAAAAAAT!? you say. How can it be hard for YOU? All you have to do is sit there passing judgement and then walk away without a care in the world. YOU don’t have to pick yourself up, dust yourself off and unpick/reknit some or all of those mangled pages (best-case scenario). Or (worse-case) deal with the possibility that the whole premise was wrong from the start.
Firstly, let’s get something straight. Most of us know what it feels like to be rejected, passed over, mocked, dismissed, criticized or otherwise told we’re not good enough – in ways far worse than in generally gentle critiques. Let me throw my humiliation hat into the ring:
Back in the early ‘90s, my band/singer-songwriter days, when a drunken man standing somewhere in the darkness beyond the spotlights completely ruined my rather beautiful accappella song about genocide in Bosnia (yes, we’re looking at you, Ratko Mladic…..) by yelling, ‘Open a vein, Luv!’
Or how about much earlier, maybe my 21st birthday, when a certain ex-boyfriend (He Who Shall Not Be Named) patiently explained to me why we would not be getting back together – ‘I’m really sorry, Sarah, but you see, I just couldn’t feel proud of you in public.’
Hah yes, I thought you couldn’t match THAT one! Ladies, there’s a reason why we all throw ourselves on to the dancefloor when Gloria Gaynor sings ‘I will survive’. Right?
So, it doesn’t take a big leap for me to put myself in your head when it comes to critiques. When I sit down opposite you at one of those little tables, I am fully aware of your nerves – and my power. I can hurt you, perhaps irreparably in terms of your writing, with one phrase. And that’s why I find these sessions so hard. I want to speak the truth, I want to be honest, I want to give you a golden nugget of advice, and I want to send you on your way feeling good about yourself. Or at least, encouraged, enabled, and enthusiastic about the future.
Is it easy? Often – either because a writer is so nearly publishable or because they are so open and keen to learn that they just can’t get enough advice and guidance. Plus they are incredibly gracious. Frequently all the above.
Other times it can be tough – maybe because the writer is absolutely new and their work is very raw. Sometimes because they just don’t want to hear anything that isn’t 100% praise and they’re actually only there because they want an agent to take them on (and will tell you so very clearly). Occasionally because they have so much invested in this story, this dream, that the emotion is just too much and the tears come at any indication that their pages may not be destined for a 6-figure deal at a major publishing house. (Please note, if you ask a direct question it is very hard for the critiquer not to answer it.)
When I enter a critique I am hyper-aware of every word I say. Critiquing is very tiring because I roll every phrase around my mind before I speak, trying it on for size and possible effect, striving to find ways to maximize these few minutes for you while also leaving you with a positive experience. It can sometimes feel like walking over a minefield. The critiquers will probably forget and move on; for the writer, those phrases may live again, on an endless repeat, for months to come. It’s a big responsibility!
For all the many of you whose openness and courage make critiquing so rewarding – thank you. In those few minutes we can bond as human beings with a love of writing and books, and a shared understanding of how we can use language to encourage and inspire each other. It can be a really stimulating and enjoyable experience.
As you head off to whatever conference awaits you in the coming months, I believe there is a critiquer/critiqued pact we can make.
For the critiquer: To be very familiar with the pages before the meeting (and to have written some notes on a handover sheet); to be honest, with only the goal of helping to make these pages even better - and always speaking with great care and kindness. Above all, to leave that writer encouraged and positive for the journey ahead, perhaps with one big point that will stick in their mind.
For the critiqued: To approach the meeting with openness and a real desire to learn. A critique is not a fast-track to getting an agent (if that does happen, a wonderful surprise). It should not be a forum for a writer to argue with their critiquer and tell them that they are wrong and the manuscript is perfect. It probably IS a good idea to slip a fresh Kleenex into your pocket – just in case!
Always remember - you are paying for this time. It is YOUR critique, so use it to the max.
Going to LA? If so, I’ll be in town seeing film people, but staying at the conference hotel during the event. Look out for me in the lobby, around the pool, and we’ll have a drink. I’m not attending the conference, so won’t be doing critiques – this time - but I’ll be in action again at the Tri-State conference (WV, PA, DE) in Gettysburg in November!
The critique pact. Critiquer and critiqued – neither side is a walk in the park. Shall we pinkie promise to make it easier for each other?