If I Want to Help You With Your Writing, I'll Probably Offer
It’s not quite as jazzy a title as “I Will Not Read Your Fucking Script”, is it? But it’s the truth.
I’ve been thinking quite a bit about what I, as a writer, owe other writers. I started to consider the question when the whole MFA consulting kerfuffle began, but John Olson’s Village Voice post–and ensuing follow-ups from Scalzi, Mamatas, Tenured Radical, and my dear net-pal, J. T. Glover–really helped me to clarify my own feelings about the topic in my head. I’m going to try to elucidate them here, though I’m not sure my thoughts will be especially pithy, other than that first line: If I want to help you with your writing, I’ll probably offer.
As someone who, for the greater part of a decade or so has self-identified as a writer (yes, I was fifteen back then; yes, I was pretentious) I, too, have realized that declaring oneself as such brings all sorts of characters out of the woodwork: boys who brag about not editing, girls who recite their vampire poetry to you at parties. And of course, I, too, dislike this. There’s nothing worse than being forced to hear bad vampire poetry when you just feel like doing jello shots and playing “Never Have I Ever.”
The funny thing is, in certain situations, I love to help other people with their writing. I was a writing tutor in undergrad, and I count that as one of my most integral experiences in my writing history in terms of sharpening my skill set. I’ve been known for offering resume and cover letter editing help to friends. I participate in editing circles with my peers, and I enjoy the editing just as much as I do receiving the edits. I proofread for Strange Horizons even though I don’t get paid for it. I recently offered to help some MFA applicants from the Poets & Writers Speakeasy Forum with their writing samples when they bemoaned that they could not afford the high price of consulting fees.
And, dammit, I like doing these things. But I do notice a trend. Namely, particularly since graduating from MFA@FLA, I strongly, strongly prefer doing these things on a volunteer basis. With resume and cover letter writing, I surely could get paid for these services (and, in a way, I did when I was a Tech. Writing instructor), but in order to make it a really profitable prospect, I’d probably have to offer my services to people who aren’t my friends and acquaintances. And I don’t really feel comfortable with offering any sort of guarantee of a job or success with any of this–helping MFA applicants or job applicants. Both of these processes are entirely too subjective to guarantee that. But when you charge for that sort of thing, the guarantee is implicit, even if it’s not explicit. Why else would someone be paying for your service?
This is still, resoundingly, my biggest objection to MFA consulting firms as well as to blogs like Query Shark (for which the payment isn’t monetary but rather in being made a public spectacle). Even if disclaimers note that there is no guarantee of admission, by marketing services specifically to MFA graduates, or writers seeking agents, such claims will always be assumed, even if they’re disclaimed and unprovable.
(Do I get something out of editing freely? Sure–personal satisfaction, for one, not to mention a nice flex of the ol’ editing fingers. I pay more attention to my own writing on the sentence level as well as on the whole when I’m editing regularly. But that’s not a tremendous gain on the part of the editor, and I prefer that. This is intangible and possibly whimsical, but it feels, to me, more honest. Are MFA consultants or QueryShark being dishonest? No, not really–they’re upfront about what they are. But I think monetizing the situation makes the entire interchange a little more dishonest, because what the people being paid must know is that all any young writer wants to hear is that ones’ writing is perfect, excellent, untransmutable, particularly if they’re offering up themselves or their money as payment for the feedback. Maybe a more realistic, even monetized interaction will help debase them of that notion, and maybe that’s a good thing, but I feel uncomfortable putting myself in that position, and feel essentially uncomfortable with such services generally.)
In paid situations, and I think this is part of what writers like Scalzi and Olson are saying, offering editing advice becomes less fun. I’ll be honest: when I was a teacher, I was sometimes resentful of students’ intrusion on my personal writing time. Grading papers? A pain. And I truly believe that any teacher or professor who tells you otherwise is a liar. Editing that was essentially identical to stuff I’d do gratis for friends suddenly became burdensome and painful. Some of this was the result of the sheer bulk of the task, but some of it, undoubtedly, also arose from a lack of personal connection between myself and my students. Even in a class of eighteen, it can be difficult to foster warm, fuzzy, friendly feelings with every student, particularly initially.
And so, even though I enjoy editing, even though it exposes me to new writing and makes me pay attention to the intricacies of my own writing more, I’d always rather choose the situations where I volunteer my skills. This allows me to skim the fat from the milk, for one thing–if someone wants to insist that they never edit, or that they only want positive feedback, I know not to bother. This allows me to use my “crazydar” and avoid weird vampire poetry. This lets me pace myself in terms of work, to not take on more than I can handle so that I don’t get angry or resentful of the intrusion on my own time, and that I still have time to write. And, this way, I can give everyone my standard disclaimer: this is only my opinion, not the monolithic view of THE PUBLISHING WORLD or some other, similar nonsense, that my editing comments do not guarantee work or publication; they’re only one woman’s opinion of an improved view of ones’ work, and that I’m fine with, and even encourage, the editee to disregard advice if it seems off. Be a filter, not a sponge. That’s what I always say.
Phoebe
Phoebe is a 20-something writer who lives in New York State with her husband and cat. She is a dork, not a geek or a nerd.
Her debut novel, Starglass, will be released from Simon and Schuster Books for Young Readers in Summer 2013.
2 comments
Nice post.In paid situations, and I think this is part of what writers like Scalzi and Olson are saying, offering editing advice becomes less fun.It's odd/interesting how one's take on these things changes with time, and what causes it to change. I used to take great pleasure in posting metrics, and yet these days it rarely seems to help. Part of me thinks there's a series of stages one goes through as a writer, or a writer-with-online-presence, or something to that effect. But anyway, yes, once one is busy doing certain kinds of writing or writing work more of the time, it becomes more like… work.Be a filter, not a sponge.I like that.
But anyway, yes, once one is busy doing certain kinds of writing or writing work more of the time, it becomes more like… work.I worry about this sometimes–I really do want to write full time someday, and even though it's a distant dream, I don't want to ever hate doing it.But then, it's my writing that I want to be working on when I'm feeling put-upon by other obligations. If I just wanted to veg and watch television, I think I'd be a smidge more concerned.