There are some friends I avoid when I’m trying to write a book. Unaccustomed to being around writers or academics, these friends don’t seem to get how the whole messy process of producing something of publishable quality works. They are wonderful, well-meaning people, but they say things that drive me nuts.
Perhaps you’re lucky and your friends/parents/partners/plumbers don’t poke around the edges of your unfinished manuscript. Or maybe you have come up with polite rote answers that fend off those folks without offending them. I’m not so good at that. Here’s what I wish I could say to these well-meaning people if I had the guts to instruct them on how to approach a struggling writer.
Don’t ask us if it’s finished yet. If it’s finished, the hoots and hollers will be audible, as will the sound of corks popping. Or maybe not. What does it mean to finish, anyway? There are many way stations on the road to publication. There’s the completion of a draft, and then the waiting around for someone — professor, adviser, editor, agent — to comment on it. Another round of work has to be completed to get to a final manuscript. After that there may be peer reviews, and a copy edit. Then you have to read the whole dang thing again in a page-proof format. For me, a piece is finished only when it’s published, printed, and I can’t change another word. I don’t celebrate along the way. Writers who do may be happier and more evolved than me.
Instead: Ask us how it’s going. Writers who are struggling may welcome the opportunity to talk. And if it’s going well, we’ll be happy to say so.
Don’t say “Can’t you take a day off?” Imagine asking Sisyphus if he wants to drop that rock midway up the hill to go have a drink. You bet he does.
Gaining momentum and establishing a routine is one of the hardest parts of a big project. No one can work all the time. But as writers, when we’re on a roll, we can’t afford to put down that rock. Of course we’d rather go have a drink, or watch the dog sleep, or clean the baseboards with a toothbrush — anything but keep hacking away at the impossible. What we don’t want is to feel guilty for being a social drag.
Instead say: “Whenever you’re ready to blow off some steam, I’d love to help pry open that valve.”
Don’t complain if we don’t want to talk about it. Some people like to talk about what they’re working on, some don’t. Those of us who don’t can seem grudging or secretive if you press for details. When we’re ready, we’ll tell you. Or not, and you can read it for yourself when it’s published.
For those writers who want to talk about a work in progress, be prepared to listen. Some writers will appreciate thoughtful questions, depending on where we are in the process and how confident we’re feeling.
If you know what our schedule is, don’t pester us at those times. Yes, we could ignore your phone calls or choose not to read your emails, but only the strongest among us will resist an excuse not to write. If you know we work in the mornings, wait until afternoon to dangle a juicy invitation.
If you have to interrupt us — if you need a ride to the hospital, say, or if you’ve been taken hostage — first ask if we are at a good stopping point.
When you see us staring out a window, understand that we may be working. When you see us hunched over our computers, that’s the pointy, exposed part of the intellectual oomph required to write anything worthwhile. Being in the throes of a big project is like having landed in a patch of poison ivy. Once we get that rash, even when we’re not scratching it, it’s still there, still itching and driving us nuts.
If we seem to be lost in thought, assume we’re on the verge of a huge breakthrough. But don’t be surprised if we say, “You know, I think I really like vanilla.”
Don’t ask us how long the book will be. Students in high school, and even in college, need to learn to bulk up their scrawny ideas and “in society today” pronouncements with reasoning and evidence. And sometimes, in order to help them get there, teachers require an assignment to have a certain page count. But with a book project, the work needs to be exactly as long as it needs to be. Plus, the number of pages in a book is the result of the design. Depending on the design, 300 pages can look like the Bible or like a children’s book.
Size doesn’t matter. At least with books.
Don’t ask us when it will be published. Even if we have a contract, until the book has been officially put into production, it’s hard to pin down an exact date. If we’ve yet to snag a contract, understand that this process can take a long time and there are many steps along the way and lots of opportunities to stumble.
Assume, if you’re a close friend, you will be invited to our release party or told when the book is on sale. Otherwise ask to be put on a list to be notified when it’s out.
Two questions you should ask before the book is finished but not after it’s published:
- What’s it about? That is a reasonable question and one all authors should be able to answer. That doesn’t mean we can, but it’s good to practice our answers on people who love us and won’t judge. Most academic authors will be able to give the 30-minute version, but will falter when they’re required to provide an elevator pitch. This is the point where a good friend can listen, take it all in, and then summarize: “So it’s basically Ironman 3 meets Pride and Prejudice in a Hunger Games setting?” Yes! That’s exactly what it is.
- Who will be interested in that? That question can make you sound like an unsupportive boob. But if posed in the right way, asking about the audience for a book can be one of the most useful issues for authors to grapple with, even if we don’t want to. Asking us — in a caring and soothing tone — who will care about our work and why it matters can be helpful.
Eventually, the book will be published. At that point, there are a whole bunch of other things friends and family might not want to say.
Don’t ask if we’re going on a book tour. We’re probably not. Few publishers, especially academic ones, send authors on the road. We’ll be going on a book tour only if we’ve set one up ourselves and are willing to drive around the country staying in motels that smell like wet dog and giving readings to six people.
Instead, ask us what we’re doing to promote the book and if there’s any way you can help. If we give a reading, show up. Bring a friend (or five).
Don’t ask how the book is selling. We don’t know. It’s impossible to know, unless a book hits The New York Times best-seller list or Oprah picks it for her club. Smart writers know never to pay attention to their ranking on certain bookselling websites or to read anonymous reviews that allow people to assign stars. Most of us won’t get a sales-and-royalty statement until the book has been out for a good long while. Even then, the “success” of most academic books isn’t measured by sales figures.
Instead, ask us if we’re happy with the way things have been going for the book.
Don’t say you couldn’t find it in your local bookstore. Writers don’t need to be reminded that the lack of shelf space for serious books means very few of our books make it into a physical marketplace. We’re thankful now that scholarly books are available for online ordering from a variety of sites.
You can ask your local bookshop to stock the book; order through that store if you can. If you buy our books online from a megastore, we will be grateful for a favorable review and a handful of stars.
Don’t tell us what you didn’t like about our book. Or that it was boring, or too long, or that it just didn’t grab you. I once read an essay where the writer, when asked how she dealt with people who didn’t like her work, quoted a playwright who told his friends, “Don’t value your opinion over my feelings.” When it’s done, it’s done. Don’t critique our finished work unless you’re a book reviewer.
Ultimately, the best way to talk to writers is to find something nice to say, even if it’s about the color of the cover or the smell of the paper. Believe me, we all get plenty of criticism. We’re delicate creatures. From our friends it’s nice to have a little fluffing. Fluff us — or we’ll avoid you.
