When Someone Quits Your Writing Group

Earlier this week, one of the members of my writing group decided that it wasn’t worth the time or effort anymore (actually, I have no idea what drew them to the conclusion, just that they did indeed decide to not be a member of the writing group anymore). In the cold-hearted sense, the writing group should survive–we have 3 people in total now, and I think that’s a feasible number to get good feedback on work and to keep the drive up to produce–granted, we brought on the 4th (now our 3rd) because I felt, at least, that we should have some more voices–but at least now we have a ready replacement.

In the non cold-hearted sense, though, it’s a very weird feeling to lose someone from something that is so tight knit and important to me. It’s not as though we’re not going to talk to the guy anymore, of course–we’ll still share the near-constant email chains we’ve always shared and the occasional physical, drinking check-ins, but all the same: my writing group has lost a founding member, and It’s making me more upset than I thought it would.

I had a feeling, of course, that it was coming. Participation was low and there was seemingly no time to do so even if it was desired. Still, I was hoping that the MIA nature of their involvement was just a momentary thing–something that they’d see as a phase and then come back to contribute as strongly as they did in the past. I guess I was wrong.

After it happened, I wondered why someone would leave, and I think it can come down to any number of things when we’re talking about a writing group:

1. No time to be part of a group
2. A lack of writing
3. The group doesn’t satisfy needs
4. The group isn’t supportive/critical
5. Personal life circumstances

Or anything else, really. But out of all of those, 3 and 4 are the most concerning. Concerning because it implies, more or less, that your writing group has something wrong with it, something that can drive people away, and that’s kind of catastrophic if you think about it. I suppose that we’ll be bringing new people into the group eventually–if not to bring us back up to a healthy 4 people, at least because we’ll come across someone who we simply think would be a good fit. But what if they hang out for only a few weeks and then decide that they, too, aren’t really feeling supported nor getting what they need from the group? How do you change the dynamic of something like that?

I’m not saying that this was the problem, of course. I haven’t yet reached out to the person leaving the group to ask specifically why they left (I was told via a phone call from another member of the group, and then told in the presence of the person leaving who didn’t say it aloud even after it was brought up). Because of that I’ve been trying to imagine why I’d leave a group–and how the hell I’d keep writing if not for the demand of the group to produce.

For me, I guess, I need the push to write. I need to know that my writing is going to be seen by people who I’ve asked to specifically look at it critically and make suggestions or corrections. Without that, I have no drive. I have no interest in writing at all. I guess I need to have that ego boost that comes with people you respect telling you you’re doing good work. Go figure.

There’s also the chance that they’ll come back, of course. That they just need the break. But there is something so concerning about the loss itself, whether or not they ever decide to come back or even start up a writing group of their own.

I realize this is a rambling post–and I appreciate if you followed along. I’m just trying to figure out this new sort of situation.

The Serenity Prayer and writing: Let’s just go there.

I think there are plenty of parallels between alcoholism and writing (really, any ism and writing). Not to put too fine a point on it, but I think when a writer is really being a writer, they are generally ignorant of other people, they are self-centered, and they are obsessed with the drunkenness of getting those words on the page/screen.

It’s easy to become addicted to certain steps of writing–not that I want to say the two are equal in regards to danger or risk, but being a writer does come with a certain amount of abandonment of a normal life. You spend hours (hours each day, hopefully/sadly) working on something that is only meaningful to you, and generally draws you away from the other aspects of a healthy life; including but not limited to family interaction, bathing, or seeing the sun.

And it’s here that I bring in the Serenity Prayer, which I learned through my father due to the exact reason you’re thinking. It goes (for those who aren’t initiated):

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,

the courage to change the things I can,

and the wisdom to know the difference.

While this has been useful for many recovering addicts, I’d like to filch it for application to the writing life.

The serenity to accept the things I cannot change

I get rejections all the time. I have stories that are waiting to be rejected (there’s that positive attitude!), and have been waiting for months and months. I have stories that are out which are published but I wish weren’t. I have days where I don’t write because I’m lazy or busy or simply not in the right frame of mind to work.

Likewise, I have days where I write for hours and come away with nothing but a cramped hand and wasted ink.

These are the things that I cannot change. They come with the business of writing, and should be accepted as such. Waiting for acceptances or rejections is part of the landscape. Wasting your own writing time is just another element of the larger picture. These are the little things that they tell you in an MFA or “how to write” book, but you really don’t grasp it until you’ve been spending unbelievable amounts of time refreshing your Submittable page hoping that one of your in-process entries will disappear and you’ll switch to refreshing your email over and over (I never look at the alternate options in Submittable: only “in process” or “received.” I like to thrill myself).

In the same way, I’ve spent so much time worrying about the stories that I have published–how they are received and how they impact the perception others have of my ability and work. I’m positive I have stories out that do nothing to help people along in thinking me worth their time, and there is relatively little I can do about it. After all, it’s work that at one point defined me in one way or another. I need to accept that I cannot change it.

The courage to change the things I can

All of that being said, ours is a flexible life. Last week I found myself hung up on a story–rewriting the same scene over and over almost every day. This week, I presented the story to myself in another way, and now I feel like I’m on track with it.

Likewise, I’ve mastered the ability to talk to editors when I have a question or concern. I have the courage to challenge those gatekeepers that, in years past, seemed much to important to bother.

Actually I thank Twitter for this, primarily.

Writers sometimes fall into the trap of thinking there are only a few ways to be a writer. You must work on a typewriter or you must use storyboards or you must feel guilty or overpowered or brilliant or whatever. Hokum. You must do what makes you stronger and productive as writer, nothing else. This is why I bought the MFA vs. NYC book but don’t care about what the arguments are, necessarily, between the two sides. You should do what makes you stronger as a writer, and that’s very rarely what makes someone else stronger as a writer. Everyone’s a unique little rainbow snowflake.

And the wisdom to know the difference

This is the most challenging part. Oftentimes I want to have complete control (I think all creatives do, to some extent), when honestly we have very little near the end of the process. You have complete control, more than likely, during the creating part, but that slips away more and more as you send out your work/have it accepted/edited/published/trashed by critics.

Even less control if you’re simply rejected. No matter of blood pressure raising and wishing will make an editor change their mind.

So understanding this: that there are moments you can control (setting a schedule for writing that you stick to, making sure to actually revise, challenging yourself) and moments you can’t (editor’s decisions, critic’s opinions, your own constantly nagging self-doubt) helps keep you a bit more grounded. It’s impossible to feel like you’ve done everything you can, but it is possible to understand that you’ve done all you can for now. 

Next time you find yourself sweating over a submission that is taking longer than you expected to hear back about or find a typo in a story that was published last year online or get a story you’re really proud of soundly rejected by everywhere you send it, say the Serenity prayer to yourself and try to work out whether it’s something you can’t change, something you need courage to change, and whether you’re able to tell the difference.

Don’t Drink Your Own Poison: Apologizing For Your Work

I just want to start this post by recognizing (as my dear friend Chris DiCicco will no doubt bring up with me almost immediately) that I am guilty of this very thing I’m railing against as recently as last week–after I gave him a hard time about it, and after he agreed that I was right, et cetera, et cetera.

Alright, now then:

You really shouldn’t talk about your work as if it’s the worst thing to happen to the language. I know it’s easy to do, and I know why you do it: because you’re putting up a shield against other people saying your writing is bad. You’re making a suppression fire to stop the forest fire of shame that you suspect will come from readers or reviewers.

I get it, I have the same impulse. If I say the story is no good, it won’t hurt as much when other people say the same thing.

Well knock that off, for God’s sake. It doesn’t work, for one thing, and it also does nothing to reinforce that writer’s skin you’ve been working on for so long. Embrace the possibility of people not liking your work–but also don’t push them towards that path.

My own writer’s group is thick with this posturing. Any time any of us submit, we generally add “this is horrible/I’m so sorry/here’s this crap to read” with the story file. It’s almost always met with a mix of responding “oh shut-up, you’re great” or “you’re right, this will be horrible” or other such sarcasms. We do it over and over, and it’s the least constructive thing we do in our group (because, frankly, everything else is pretty damned important and helpful, speaking for myself).

However, setting up that expectation is remarkably counter productive. You aren’t going to endear yourself to your reader, nor are you going to allow yourself to be convinced to accept compliments in the criticisms (they’re just saying to make you feel better, after all).

Instead, I suggest submitting work to your writing groups/readers without any comment on the quality of the work. If you chose the right sort to be looking at your work, they’ll be able to figure out if it’s under your normal skill level. Furthermore, it makes the entire conversation more genuine and helpful. Essentially, you’re removing the possibility for pity or guilt, and that makes for better critiquing and building of your stories.

Let your work, whether your best or your worst, speak for itself.

How DARE You?! (Is it Okay for Editors to Make Changes?)

One of the more interesting conversations I’ve had (both in the MFA and when speaking to writers in general) is that of artistic integrity. In particular, what to do when a publisher or editor wants you to make sweeping changes to the text of your story/manuscript.

In this case, I want to focus in on the short story, as it’s what I write and the only thing I have some experience with when it comes to working with editors (there are reviews, too, but writing about that process doesn’t interest me nearly as much, yet).

The short story is an interesting thing to consider, as it is generally very succinct and, hopefully, the writer hasn’t put much into it that is just fluff or unimportant. It’s self contained, and as such it’s hard to make even a moderate change without shifting the entire story.

There are generally two schools of thought I’ve encountered. Camp A believes any “big” change to a story is a corruption of artistic integrity, and are more than willing to respond to editor’s requests for suggested changes with a “no” and pull their story.

Camp B, on the other hand, is willing to make those changes as, after all, it’s part of the business.

Up to this week, the argument and my own opinion has been philosophical in nature. However, on Wednesday I received an email from a review:

The Editors and I met today to discuss your work. We enjoyed many aspects of it and we wondered if you might be willing to take some suggestions from us and make some revisions? I would email you a Word Document with our thoughts in about a week. 

My first reaction was aaawwwssooommmeee as it didn’t have the word “unfortunately” within the first three lines. This was followed by the ever-so-slight ego-slap that my story wasn’t quite what they wanted, but they were willing to take my hand and show me the way.

Fortunately, I don’t have that much of an ego about my work (and you shouldn’t either, friend), so I didn’t let that emotion carry much further than that.

After all, it’s their publication–they know what they want to see and what they want to have their name tied to. While I could take the rode where I damn them for thinking that I, Matthew Kabik, make any concessions for the likes of anyone. But the truth is that I do, and am more than willing to, because I’m just another writer trying to get their work out into the world.

And that’s pretty much where I am with it: if a publication wants to make intelligent changes to your story–not adding zombies though that would be totally fine with me in this case, editors, why not go with it? At the very least you’ll have a review of your work from people in the field if you decide you don’t want to go with them. If you do, however, you have both criticism and a publication of your work–and you’re recognized as someone who is willing to work with publishers/editors, which in our small circles isn’t a horrible thing.

note: after writing this up, a facebook friend shared this video. I thought it was a great way to cap this conversation: 

Break Through the Writing Doldrums

This morning I found myself in a slump. I’ve written all the stories I had bouncing around in my brain, I have work out to about 14 places (and I’m not particularly willing to spread myself out much more than that at this point, as I don’t want to send the same work to different places too much), and I’m waiting to hear back from seven “in-process” stories–and have been waiting for quite a while.

In short, I’m in the writing doldrums, and I’m feeling the stillness of it acutely.

The writing doldrums is a made up term I just coined, but the experience certainly isn’t unique. It’s a point where a writer is, more or less, holding their breath. They are waiting on a submission to come back or are waiting for an idea to crest itself in the mind. I’m trying to come up with as many ocean/sailing comparisons as I can right now, and I think I’m doing a great job keeping myself afloat.

Anyway, it’s a tricky spot to be in (the devil to pay and no hot pitch–stop me), and it’s important to get out of it, or at the very least be productive while stuck in the doldrums. Here are some ways I’ve found to get back into writing:

1. Brainstorm story ideas: When was the last time you stopped to just come up with story ideas? I know that I generally just wait to stumble onto one, which is easier but less effective. Instead, spend some time thinking about story plots when you’re in the writing doldrums. Give yourself time to develop a narrative in your mind, or come up with an interesting character–or even just a fragment of a plot. Doing this can be the first step to getting a new story idea.

2. Write a three hundred word story: I write flash fiction sometimes, but generally I stick with short stories (let’s say 1500 and up). When I get hung up with nothing to write–or I just don’t feel like writing–I force myself to write tiny 300 word stories. I create a character while I’m writing about her and then let the story develop, whatever it turns out to be. Often times these stories are overly dramatic and break every good rule of writing that exists, but the point isn’t to share them with anyone, it’s to get your brain working again. That being said:

3. Share your work: Before the MFA, this blog was a place for me to share my work. Whenever I was practicing at writing those 300 word stories, I’d post them on the blog. I found that knowing people would see them (even just the few dozen that read this thing) helped me feel like I had to write. This comes with a few caveats, of course: anything you put up on your own blog is, in fact, published. Many places you could send that work in the future will indicate that they don’t want it simply because you posted it before. So I’d recommend sharing work that you don’t expect you’ll use in the same form as a possible submission.

However, if you are willing to share work just for the sake of getting yourself excited about writing again, well then this might work for you.

4. Read: More often than not, reading is the best inspiration to get yourself writing. In particular when you read a story and think “Hell, I could write that!” It’s not a slight when one writer thinks this about another–it is something that drives writers crazy, though. The idea that someone beat you to the punch is a great reminder that writing is something that has a timeframe–both in that you will someday be in a casket (where you won’t get WiFi access nor have enough light to write) and that every other writer is also writing. If you have a story in your noggin, get writing. You might get published only because you  got your feet on the ground first.

5. Don’t force it: Outside of those other four is this piece of advice–don’t force it. Sometimes fretting over your lack of writing can make the lack of writing so much worse. Getting caught in the doldrums is a natural part of the changes that happen to all writers  what writers go through, so don’t think that you’re failing or never going to write again. Give yourself time to pull through it naturally.

But if you find that you simply can’t abide waiting–or have been waiting too long, why not give a few of these tips a try.