Oh, so you're a writer...

So, there was this discussion on the SCBWI-BI group a while ago – about how people respond when you say, “I’m a writer.” The responses are a study in psychology, with possibly enough material for an entire convention...of psychologists, not writers – we-ell, then again, maybe both.

There seem to be two distinct types when it comes to responses, and it depends on how well people think they know you. The better they think they know you, the tougher the experience.

Family members or family acquaintances either provide pitying looks, roll their eyes or pretend they have a gerbil stuck in their ear when I tell them I’m writing a novel. These responses appear to be based on one or more of the following thought processes:

a) she couldn’t string a coherent sentence together if she tried. Poor deluded dolt.
b) writing a book? Yeah, right - what a waster!
c) shame that she will eventually have to realise that she’s just not “famous” material. Her? The next JK Rowling? Ha!
d) she’s never got over being retrenched from “corporatedom”, poor thing.
e) she’s just trying to make out that she’s “different” and better than us. Always been a stuck up little beast. Why can’t she just go off and be a secretary.
f) oh crap, I hope she’s not going to want to tell me about it. I so don’t care.

Occasionally, I’ll get a vague, “Oh, that’s nice, dear.” At which point a jam doughnut is conveniently stuffed into their mouths and masticated with sticky gusto thus preventing further discussion. Very rarely, they may ask, “What’s your book about?” You can rest assured that in this instance their eyes will glaze over before I’ve uttered four words. (Note to self – work on 3 word pitch.) God forbid I should tell them I’m writing for children. Because that, really, is just proof that I:

a) can’t string a coherent adult sentence together,
b) really am just goofing off,
c) am a seriously deluded wannabe,
d) am incapable of holding down a proper job and,
e) am just pathetic and have never grown up,

In the almost unheard of instance when an aunt asked what I was writing, a conversation very nearly ensued. It went something like this:
“Oh, you know cousin X’s ex-girlfriend...?”
“No.” (I’m unsociable like that.)
“Well, she’s just published a picture book. It’s all about sharks. It’s very good, you know. When’s your book going to be published?”
When I muttered darkly about how tough it is to be published (especially somewhere other than my own country), the aunt in question gave me a look which indicated I may well have been some noxious substance on the sole of her shoe, and then stuffed a ham sandwich into her gob.

I have, however, learned to find the positives in these situations; relatives are magnificent fodder for stories. Remember this: everyone is fair game in a writer’s twisted mind. Piss me off, and you may end up as a villain in my next book – and you can be sure my hero will bring you down – hard.

The second type of response usually comes from strangers.

They are lovely – mostly. Strangers are infinitely more supportive and often wide-eyed with wonder that they’ve actually met a real writer (we’ll get to the unpublished bit later). They’re inclined to be interested, fascinated and seriously impressed. I have to tell you, it does a girl’s ego the power of good. Of course, the trade off is they do also want to tell you about this great idea they have for a book (doesn’t everyone) and maybe you could help them write it.

Sitting on the train a couple of months ago, having visited a dear writer pal in Wokingham, the bloke next to me kept trying to make conversation. Now, my mother always told me not to speak to strangers, and when it suits me, I heed her advice. Given that the guys in the next row of seats were as drunk as skunks after a day out at Ascot, I was keeping my head well down. But my fellow passenger was persistent and eventually he asked the inevitable, “Why are you in England and what do you do?”
So I told him.
“Wow… Wow… Wow!” Pause. “Wow… So you’re a writer? Wow!”
(This is the point where girl raises hand to hide smile.)
“So what do you write?”
"Ficion for young adults, you know, older teens."
“Oh wow… That’s…that’s just so amazing. I wish I’d started speaking to you earlier. This is my stop but, wow… I just met a real writer!”
He left the train in a cloud of wonder.

I couldn’t help but imagine what would have happened if I’d been a published author and could have offered him one of my books - which brings me to the point when strangers say, with tremendous earnestness, “So where can I buy a copy of your book?” or "Have I read your book?"

It’s at this point that I feel I’m letting them down terribly. I shuffle a bit, and mutter that thing about how hard it is to write for children, how competitive the market is, how tough it is to get published, how it’s even tougher in the current economic climate – and then we both look embarrassed and run out of words. I try to mumble about the encouraging editor and agent feedback I’ve had, but really, I feel like I must, after trying for so long, be totally rubbish, and I know they think they same. And they smile then, and it’s sort of pitying… and the moment is entirely ruined and I have to turn into the clown and dig us both out of the hole.




See, here’s the thing, the longer one is a writer-in-waiting, the tougher it becomes. People are less inclined to believe you’re doing a “proper job” and are more inclined to believe that you really can’t string those two coherent sentences together. (Because, really, that is all that writing’s about, isn’t it…? Just stringing sentences together…). And so the pitying looks increase, and ultimately, they stop asking you how the book is going. My non-writer friends stopped asking me years ago about my writing – I think they just find it too embarrassing. In some ways, this is a blessed relief - though, sadly, it limits my opportunity to bore them witless about the exploits of some or other make-believe person. Ultimately, it may all go a long way to explaining why I spend a lot of time hanging out in cyberspace with my writer pals and being increasingly reclusive in the real 3D world.

Oh no, wait, I’m not reclusive, I’m very busy working, doing my job - writing and writing and rewriting and rewriting… and then writing again!