Resource Articles
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Working with Editors and Writers-in-Residences
By Valerie (Poulin) Bean (Printed March 8, 2010 in Writing and Writers)
Like many emerging writers, family and work-related responsibilities consume much of my free time, so when I’m looking for professional feedback on personal writing projects, classroom settings don’t always work for me. I need the flexibility and convenience that a written critique allows.
The first experience I had with an editor underscored the intrinsic value on soliciting feedback from professionals. I found a freelance writer-editor to work for a non-fiction manuscript I was self-publishing. Not only was the price right, but his view of self-publishing was refreshingly positive. The collaborative experience was so rewarding that I decided to look for editors to work with on other writing projects.
In the past several years, I’ve been lucky to work with WCDR writers-in-residence Stuart Ross, Bernice Lever and Marjorie Ludlow Green, but I’ve also pursued feedback from writers-in-residence through public library and universities, which is where I found Betty Jane Wylie and poet, NorbeSe Philip. I found established poets Harold Rhenisch, Anne Simpson, and Colin Morton online at the LCP website. And last year, I found Claire Robson through the EAC.
From Claire Robson, I learned a lot about rapport and synergy. Those attributes aren’t found by typing keywords like “non-fiction + editor” into a website’s Search box or a Web browser. Claire proceeded slowly. First, she sent me to her website. If I liked this representation of her work and her approach to editing, we’d continue. I did. Next, she led me through a Q&A to determine the level of my editorial needs. Then we settled on an hourly rate and schedule for remitting work and receiving feedback.
From our initial information sessions, I was able to get a good sense of her professional approach and sensibility toward editing and toward me as an emerging writer. The experience was nothing less than exceptional.
I made all the mistakes novice writers make
In the beginning, though, I did what every emerging writer does. I expected validation rather than honest feedback. Early on, I even hoarded my better work and sent stuff I was not emotionally attached to. Sure, that’s a great way to remain invulnerable to criticism—and while most editors are sensitive to the self-doubt of emerging writers and consequently tend to be moderate with criticism—it must have been difficult trying to find positive things to say about work that was not up to scratch.
On the other hand, as I received gentle and encouraging guidance I submitted better work. Soon it became what it should be—more about the work and less about acceptance of my writer self. I began to focus on the positive comments, to concentrate on what worked, rather than focus on what didn’t. It took time before I stopped sending of what I considered my “best” work—which I had defined as favourite—and started sending my most polished work.
Choosing what to send, I learned, also takes proper evaluation through close scrutiny of the written work. Editors and writers who provide critiques tell me that it can be frustrating to receive what is obviously a first draft, instead of a polished piece. These continuing editor-writer relationships have taught me to look more critically at my work, to distance myself from it and read the work with an objective, editorial eye before I send it.
One of the tricks I use is to make-believe I am being graded on the piece. In aiming for an A+ my lazy writer proofreads with care while the editor in me thinks about the structure and overall flow. It started with non-fiction, but I now use this same trick when submitting poems and fiction work for publication.
Written feedback allows me time and space I need to revisit the work
In receiving feedback, I prefer written responses. Since written evaluations have a longer life span than the verbal variety, I can revisit the piece when I run into stumbling blocks during revisions. Usually, I read the feedback then put the pages away and get busy doing something else. I think about the critique, make notes and after a week or more, I retrieve the pages and re-read the analysis. Then I repeat the process. Only then am I ready to make revisions. From this vantage point, I’ve been able to find a new way of dealing with weaknesses, which tend to fall away, leaving the best work standing. Following this process has made my writing stronger.
These experiences have also been satisfying for a few other reasons: the one-on-one nature of the relationship, the explicit aspects of written feedback, and the forethought required to decide which pieces to send (by analyzing the work, I weed out the weaker pieces).
What’s more, any rewriting I do before submitting it means I submit my best possible work. And submitting my best possible work means I’ll get the best possible feedback.
About Valerie (Poulin) Bean
Between corporate and technical writing gigs, Valerie (Poulin) Bean writes magazine features, profiles, and general-interest articles. She is a published book author, an internationally published poet, and a Shaunt Basmajian Chapbook Award finalist in 2003. Valerie currently edits articles for Minor.Hockey.Life (www.minorhockeylife.blogspot.com), writes a fiction blog, and tends to her latest venture A Creative Way Out of Work (www.valeriebeanonline.biz). Her online business address is www.valeriebeanonline.com.
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Risk Taking for Writers — A Talk by Barbara Kyle
PWAC (Professional Writers Association of Canada) Seminar, March 9, 2004
Who Do You Think You Are?
All of you who’ve come here tonight have taken a shocking risk: you dare to think of yourselves as writers. That may be the biggest hurdle – the psychological one. Denigrating artistic endeavour is a tradition in Canada. Remember Alice Munro’s story collection titled: Who Do You Think You Are? It’s a reference to small-town Ontario pique at any young person who presumes to elevate their standards and dares to excel: “Just who do you think you are?” Well, you here tonight don’t just think you’re writers, you know you’re writers. So, congratulations for taking on such a big risk and overcoming it.
Writing a Novel? You Must Be Crazy
Is writing a novel a risk? Definitely. In fact, it’s a risk minefield. Let me enumerate the explosives. Some are in plain view, some lurk well buried.
1. You’ll be making a huge investment in time. It will take you at least a year of writing, likely far longer, to create a marketable novel. (My first novel took three years.) Even after a publisher buys your novel, another nine months or so will go by before it’s actually printed and on the shelves. (That’s the approximate length of time a novel is “in production” with your publisher.) This can feel upsettingly endless. And, if you’re taking time off from a paying job in order to write a novel, this year or longer spent on the project is a truly major investment. It is the biggest risk.
2. You risk elevating your hopes and dreams. You want your book to be successful, to reach a large readership, and to sell well. The longer you spend writing the novel, the more intensely you dream of these things. You wouldn’t be human if you didn’t.
3. You risk alienating loved ones. People around you, even those who love you, won’t ever really understand why the silly book is taking so long to write. Or that when you’re staring out a window for an hour, you’re working. They really won’t get it. And it won’t help matters if you protest to your spouse or partner about needing peace and quiet to do “your art.” These people have more tangible jobs, and they work hard at them too. If you love them, you’ll keep that in mind. It’s a delicate balancing act.
4. You risk being an object of pity from friends and acquaintances. At parties, new acquaintances will ask with a kind of bored skepticism: “You write? Oh really? Would I have read any of your books?” And this can go on for years.
5. You risk questioning your own judgement about taking the risk of writing a novel. You’re going to hit some very low points. Writing a novel is like running a marathon: it takes stamina to get to the end. And once you do, you must then push on with the nerve-wracking but necessary effort to get it published. That will most likely include several rejections. All of this will tax your stores of resilience and determination.
Yin & Yang
However, like so much in our world, there’s a yin & yang principle at play: Big risk, big reward. The rewards of writing a novel are substantial. Let me enumerate them:
1. Seeing your first book published and on book store shelves
2. Seeing all your following books published
3. The money. There’s no joy like signing a contract for a nice juicy advance. Revise that: there’s no joy like seeing the royalty cheques that follow
4. You get to do work that you love
5. You get to tell the world what bugs you about the human condition, what breaks your heart about it, and what thrills you about it
6. An office at home: Your morning commute is a half-minute stroll down the hall, coffee mug in hand
7. When they ask at parties “Would I have read any of your books?” you get to say with a smile, “If not, go check them out at any Indigo.”
Think Big
So far, I’ve referred to negative risks. But there’s one major risk I would advise you to consider, and it’s a positive one. It’s this: Think big. Specifically, take the risk of submitting your work in New York.
New York City is the center of the English-speaking book publishing universe. The market the U.S. publishing industry reaches is colossal. The market the Canadian industry reaches is very small. There is no “mass market” in Canada. Therefore, there’s no large body of popular fiction published here. Instead, Canadian publishers focus on literary fiction. But literary fiction doesn’t sell well. A handful of authors like Atwood and Ondaatje and Yann Martel notwithstanding, literary fiction does not sell well. Popular fiction sells hugely – that’s why it’s called popular – but it is published almost exclusively by U.S. companies. So, if you’re going to invest all your time and heart in writing a novel, do you want to sell five thousand copies in Canada, or fifty thousand copies in the U.S. and Canada. (American publishers consider Canada virtually part of their domestic market.) The author gets only about 10% of retail: for a $30 book you get $3. So, using the above sales numbers, it’s a choice between $15,000 and $150,000. Which is why my advice is: aim for the top – submit your work in New York.
Unfortunately, many beginning Canadian writers never think beyond Toronto. Some feel intimidated by the U.S. Some, I suspect, stay out to punish George W. Bush. (A tactic with limited effect.) Some believe it’s simply impossible to break into the U.S. This isn’t so. American publishers are looking for good, marketable books, and they don’t care if the author lives in Timmins or Timbuktu or on the moon. All that matters to them is what’s on the page.
There’s a second positive risk about writing a novel that I’d advise. It’s the risk of taking your work seriously. By that I don’t mean thinking of your writing as brilliant. It probably isn’t. Yet. The point is, it can be made to be brilliant, but only if you take the job seriously and don’t underestimate the work involved. That requires a major commitment. Ironically, your loved ones, over time, will eventually come to respect this. People do, in general, respect commitment. (Though I still recommend that you don’t go around moaning about your “art.”)
Let’s Be Realistic
I believe it helps to put the risk in perspective – that is, in the context of a “real world” situation. Don’t think of what you’re doing as an “artistic” endeavour. Rather, think like an entrepreneur who’s starting a business. A restaurant, say. Very risky. And it’s obvious that a major capital expenditure is necessary. But once the risks are laid out, understood, and accepted, then one goes about creating the best damn restaurant in town.
The best way to look risk in the eye and live with it is this: Keep your expectations low and your standards high. The key is to examine the risk realistically. Know you goal and ask yourself: Is writing a novel worth it? Is it worth the hardships I’ve listed: the huge investment of time, and the concurrent loss of income; the strain on loved ones; the elevation of your hopes that may never be fulfilled? If the answer is yes, then go out and write the best damn novel in town.
About Barbara Kyle
Barbara Kyle is the author of the Tudor era novels The Queen’s Lady (2008) and The King’s Daughter (2009) which have sold internationally. Publishers Weekly praised the latter for its “complex, fast-paced plot mixing history with vibrant characters.” Her next novel in this series, The Queen’s Captive, will be published by Kensington Books in August 2010. Previously, Barbara won acclaim for her contemporary novels Beyond Recall (a Literary Guild Selection), After Shock and The Experiment under her pen name ‘Stephen Kyle’. Before becoming an author Barbara enjoyed a twenty-year acting career on stage, TV and film in Canada and the U.S. She and her husband live for six months of every year aboard their sailboat, a 46-foot ketch, on Lake Ontario. Visit Barbara’s website at http://www.barbarakyle.com to learn more about her books and workshops, and to sign up for her newsletter.