A while back, a contact on LinkedIn asked me about how I deal with negative comments on blog posts. I post regularly on LinkedIn, looking at social media marketing and big data, so this was not on the writing posts on this page, but even so, I think it’s a relevant discussion, and one which everyone who posts online is going to deal with at some stage. The fact is not everyone is going to like what you write. This is the same as in regular life – not everyone’s going to like you, no matter how you try. You’ll never please everyone, and while you definitely should read and assess anything and everything that people have taken the time to post in response to your work, you need to also know, within yourself, what the likely outcomes are of your reactions.
‘Never respond to critics’
At one stage in my mentorship which Christos Tsiolkas, Christos advised me to never respond to critical reviews of my work. There’s just no positive outcome, there’s nothing you can say or do that’s going to end up reflecting well on you – if a person says your book is bad and you respond with ‘well you don’t know what you’re talking about’, what then? How will that response reflect on you? Sure, responding might get you some more coverage, maybe it sparks some discussion, some writer taking on his critics, but in the majority of cases in fiction writing you’re debating a difference of opinion. Even if they’ve mis-interpreted your meaning, that’s what they got from your work, that’s the response they had, you can’t really debate that. The unavoidable fact is that the more you put your work out there, the more likely it is that people are going to talk about you – the more people talk, the higher the probability that some of those comments are going to be negative. There’ll always be one. There’ll probably be more than one. The key element to consider is how happy you are with your work – are you, personally, satisfied that you’ve done all you can to make your work the best it can be, the best representation of what you wanted to communicate? From that perspective, you’re better placed to assess whether the critic is raising a valid point worth consideration – you need to be able to assess this for yourself, and think ahead to the most likely outcome of your response or silence. You can’t be sitting over every readers’ shoulder explaining what you meant – people will take what they want from your writing. You have to let them.
‘Always respond to every comment’
Here’s where the non-fiction world differs somewhat – whilst responding to a critic of your fiction work is based purely on a subjective viewpoint, responses and comments on non-fiction work are often based on points of fact, in which case you may need to respond to ensure it’s clear to all that you’ve done the work, that you do know what you’re talking about. The general advice in social media circles is to respond to all comments, positive or negative. But even then, there are some which you just can’t – spammers send through weird things like this:
The article this was posted on was about how social media is ever-evolving. How could I respond to that? What would be the outcome of my response? My judgement in this case was that this wasn’t worth replying to, as there’s nothing to be gained from this – the only possible outcome could be further interactions with what I suspect to be a spammer. So no response.
My basic approach to dealing with negative comments on non-fiction work is stick to logic and avoid emotional response. Emotional response is reactive, so you’re best advised to take a moment to think. You need to appreciate that this person has taken the time to read your piece, that you don’t know what sort of mindset they’re in. From there, you should re-read the comment then only respond if you feel there is likely to be benefit in you doing so. You shouldn’t back away from a challenge – if the commentor is welcoming some sort of debate based on your work, then that’s a great opportunity to generate discussion and make connections with interested parties, but often times that’s not what negative commentors are seeking. Often, they’re just saying things. Understanding which is which is important in your assessment process.
The Comments I’ve Seen
So here’s a few examples of comments on my posts, and how I’ve handled them. This first comment was on a piece about partnerships between social media platforms and tech companies.
The post had more than 3k views and 100 likes, so obviously not everyone shared this commentor’s opinion that it was loaded with jargon. There’s not really anyway I could respond to this, if I say ‘good’ that provides no benefit. I could say it’s not filled with jargon, but I’m not sure it would’ve served much purpose, and the wording of the comment suggest to me that this is not really an opinion based on logic. I chose to ignore in this case.
This next one was on a piece entitled: “What Does a Lack of Social Media Presence Say About Your Brand?”
Obviously this guy felt pretty strongly about it not being relevant – though it is interesting that he read and commented on this piece on a social media network. Again, no response on this one – I doubt that my reasoning would be changing his mind at this stage.
I quite liked this one, and did respond, as per the screenshot. The piece was about how change is constant in the social media space.
Now, admittedly, I’m not sure what the commentor meant about ‘US competitive standing’ – I’m Australian so this wasn’t really in my sphere of thinking when approaching the topic – but my initial response was ‘why comment?’ The post did pretty well, it had been viewed more than 8k times and received a lot of likes, so this was obviously a common thought. To me, this person was just looking to argue, but I felt compelled to respond in this case because I didn’t want to back away from a challenge. In the end, my response is logical, stating my point, avoiding any personal or emotional conflict in my language. Whilst I do think the original comment was baited and attacking in tone, responding in kind is just not going to be beneficial. There was no further correspondence but I was happy with my response.
And then, of course, there are the people who just want to say things. Whether they’re having a bad day or they dislike the topic or they hate the look of your profile photo, some people just want to say things. Take this one for example from a recent piece (not mine) titled ‘Three Unusual Reasons Why Every Professional Should be on Twitter’:
Now, there’s obviously significant evidence to counter this, but even if this was your belief, why comment on a piece about Twitter marketing? Why are you even reading it? Sometimes, people are compelled to say things, no matter what those things are or who they might be broadcast to. If you think it’s worth responding, you should, but there are times when it’s best to just leave them be.
It basically comes down to your own commonsense. You should always read every comment and take in all the info – these people have taken the time to read your work so you owe them the same respect. But you have to consider how your responses are going to be received, remain mindful of the potential outcomes. For fiction, take on board the points raised, consider them, then action them if you feel like there’s something worth investigating to improve your work. If one person comments on a certain aspect that no one else has mentioned, and you don’t necessarily agree with their opinion, then you can leave it. But if two or more people mention the same thing, in isolation from one another, then you need to re-visit and ensure your work best represents what you intended. For non-fiction, respond wherever you can, but only if you think it’s worth doing so.
The worst thing anyone can do is take the comments to heart and give up. Don’t give up. You’re always going to face some level of negativity, it’s important to take it for what it is. It’s one person’s opinion. Don’t take it personal, view it as that, as one person’s thoughts on the work presented, not you personally. Having an idea challenged is actually a great way to solidify and improve your thoughts and processes, we need diverse views to advance our understanding. But also know that sometimes there’s nothing you can say. Either way, every comment is an opportunity to learn.
Here’s a question – let’s say someone came up to you while you were in the audience of a major event. This person comes up, holding a microphone, and the person says: ‘Our singer has called in sick and we have no one to sing the national anthem, would you do it?’ No way, right. No freakin’ way – there is no chance you’re going to get up there and embarrass yourself in front of all these people, right?
I thought of this recently when I saw this clip of Daniel Radcliffe rapping on Jimmy Fallon:
Now, obviously, this was planned – all the set-ups on these shows are, but it got me thinking about our reluctance to do things like this, our hesitation to put ourselves out there. And the lack of that same hesitation in people who’ve achieved significant success.
On one hand, this could be confined to performers – people who love being up on stage are always more likely to take the mic and belt out a song, some would even love the thought of being asked to do the national anthem. But it’s interesting to consider why we’re so hesitant, why we’re so petrified of embarrassment. Because generally, there’s not a lot of fallout for people who fail in such circumstances. I mean, if you were to butcher the national anthem you’d become an internet sensation, blasted across every news site beneath headlines celebrating your failure in pithy wordplay. That would be bad, but if you’re not a singer and you had a shot at it and failed, does it matter if you get criticised for failing as a singer? Is it something that’ll be held against you forever? Think of this case, where a taxi driver was mistaken for an IT expert:
Of course, there is an inherent risk in putting forth your opinions on a topic in which you want to be seen as a leader – you don’t want to be presenting to a room of business executives on a topic you have absolutely no idea about, but I guess the point I’m making is that we often over-emphasize the potential harm of failure. Even perceived failure, failure in disciplines where we have no expertise. But those who are more willing to put themselves out there, more likely to take what’s presented to them and just go with it, those people are also more likely to achieve success. Because they’re more likely to say what they think, more likely to stand up and be counted, to present their work, come what may. Because really, it doesn’t matter what most people think. If you’re willing to take a risk and put yourself out there, you’re increasing your chances of success, purely through exposure alone. People shouldn’t be afraid to try things, to present their ideas and thoughts, to reach out. Because why not?
There’s always a level of commonsense in anything, this is not to say you should do whatever you want, whenever you want, screw the consequences, but who cares if you stand up and embarrass yourself at a karaoke bar? Who cares what strangers who you’ll never meet think? So long as you’re having fun and the people who do mean something to you are too. Why not try it out?
The same principle applies to writing, or art of any kind, really. How many people do you know who say they want to write a book or want to have a go at something but they never do? Why not have a try it out? Why not get it down and work on it and submit to a competition or journal? If you hear nothing, so what? You tried. If they didn’t like it, no problem, you can try again – if it makes you happy and it’s something you really want to do (and it doesn’t harm anyone in the process) you should do it. Because you don’t want to be one of those people looking back, talking about how you always wanted to be a [insert title here].
Every now and then, try to take a risk and do something you’d normally avoid, rather than hiding inside your own shell. Through small steps, pushing yourself that little bit, you build up your resilience to outside opinions and increase your chances of achieving your dreams. The more you do it, the more you build trust in yourself. The sky didn’t fall in. Your world didn’t collapse. And in putting yourself out there, you also allow others into your world, helping you connect with likeminded people and build interest-based communities, communities that can help you further your dreams through mutual support. Communities that help you fill that need you’ve always wanted, that thing you’ve always wanted to be. Trying is the key. Sharing what you’re passionate about.
Why not try?
National Novel Writing Month – or NaNoWriMo – begins this weekend, spurring all those would-be authors willing to put themselves on the line to write 50,000 words in 30 days. It’s an excellent initiative, and has now become grown into a global event. For those of you who are considering joining in, or have heard about NaNoWriMo and thought ‘that sounds kinda’ cool, I really should look into that’, here’s the what and the why of how it works.
NaNoWriMo started in 1999 in San Francisco with 21 participants. It was originally held in July, but moved to November because the weather in the US is worse then, inspiring more people to stay indoors and write. The event was started (‘accidentally’) by freelance writer Chris Baty, who organised the event up till 2011, when he quit to write full-time, largely based on the works and contacts he’d made through his work with NaNoWriMo (Baty now teaches at Stanford University, amongst his various creative pursuits). The ethos of the event was not only to inspire those who’d always wanted to write a novel, but to also build communities of like-minded folk, to get writers to connect with one another.
The event has grown year-on-year and is now a truly international event. In 2013, 400, 000 people participated in NaNoWriMo – including 4, 400 from Australia. The collective word count from those 400k writers was close to 3 billion, a massive achievement. Many of these stories would’ve never seen the light of day, but they’re now out there, being worked on, being discussed and connecting people in a discussion about the written word.
The rules of NaNoWriMo are as follows:
- Starting at 12:00 am on November 1st, novels must reach a minimum of 50,000 words before 11:59:59 pm on November 30th, local time.
- Planning and extensive notes are permitted, but no earlier written material can go into the body of the novel, nor is one allowed to start early and then finish 30 days from that start point.
- Participants write either a complete novel of 50,000 words, or simply the first 50,000 words of a novel to be completed later.
To ‘win’ NaNoWriMo, participants need to write an average of approximately 1,667 words per day. Organizers say the aim of the event is simply to get people writing, using the deadline as an incentive to get the story going and to put words to paper. There is no fee to participate in NaNoWriMo, registration is only required for novel verification.
No official prizes are awarded – anyone who reaches the 50,000 word mark is declared a winner.
Do any of these books get published?
Yeah, they do. More than 100 NaNoWriMo novels have been published since 2006, including the New York Times Best Seller ‘Water for Elephants’ by Sara Gruen, which was later adapted into a Hollywood film. Many established novelists have used NaNoWriMo as an impetus to get their novels done, along with the thousands of first timers – just having it set aside as a time to write has kept many writers going.
How do you get involved?
You can visit the official NaNoWriMo website to register and put down details of your project and aim for the month. There are a heap of resources on the site, worth checking them out and reading through the various notes on inspirations and ideas. From the site, you can connect to the home for your region, where you can find info on events happening in your city and ways to connect with other NaNoWriMo folk – the Melbourne community page is here.
There are a heap of resources and posts online documenting people’s experiences and inspirations for NaNoWriMo, if you’re not sure about participating, have a look and you’ll be able to get a better idea of whether it’s for you.
Almost everyone has thought about writing a novel at some stage. Everyone has an idea in mind, a story they’d love to get down but they never have the time to actually do it. NaNoWriMo is a great initiative to help give people that push, that impetus they need to get it down – and it’s only for a month, you only have to make the commitment to write for 30 days. The bottom line is that a writer writes. That’s what you do – if you’re not writing, you’re not a writer. NaNoWriMo could be the first step towards getting your story together, to making something from nothing, creating a whole world of characters and happenings, right there on your screen. It all starts with you and the blank page.
If you’ve ever thought about it, maybe this year’s the one that you actually sign up.
I caught up with an old friend yesterday, someone I’d not seen in thirteen years. And it was fine, normal, we just caught up like nothing much had changed, despite us both having had kids, got married, acquired mortgages, etc. It made me reflect on something I’d thought about on and off, and that’s the huge role our teenage years have on our sense of self and self-worth. We actually talked about this, how it didn’t feel like we were in high school so long ago, the experience felt much closer. What is it that binds us to those formative years, that still lingers decades after? More importantly, when do we grow up and become adults?
This was interesting to consider from a writing perspective, the fact that many people never truly feel like grown-ups. We resist growing up, we idealise our time as care-free children and fun motivated teens. Because who wants to think about work and responsibility? Life was more fun when we didn’t have such obligations and as your existence becomes evermore complex, your memories of those years become more rosy. Sure, there were bad times too, but sitting around talking with friend till dawn, finding new music that changed your perspective, hanging out and doing absolutely nothing. Those memories are hard to shake.
As a writer, you’re seeking to capture the emotion of the moment, to tell stories that fully transport the reader to a different world. That immersion, that perfect progression that allows you to capture attention and hold it, is why people read. Like the idyllic world of our youth, people want to escape, they want to be taken away from their day-to-day repetition. A powerful tool which can help you capture such emotion is to consider those resonant moments from your youth. What were the incidents that really stayed with you, the things that really hit you? Those emotions, while immature, are still very relevant, and normally very raw, as many of them would’ve been your first experiences with such feelings. How you felt at those times is important and has played an important part in shaping your adult self. Recalling those times and translating them to scenes and characters in your work is a great way to capture real emotion and add honest depth to your work.
Thinking of this also reminded me of the importance of writing. There’s a lot to take in in our adult lives, a lot to deal with. It’s important we write because people need an escape. People need to be able to step outside of themselves and experience something different, something new. You can never transfer your consciousness into another body – the closest you can get to viewing the world from someone else’s perspective is to read. And it’s important people read, it’s important that people have the opportunity to experience more than their own life. Your writing enables that, your honesty, your experiences, your real worlds created on paper are important. We need to write not just to get our own story out, but to allow others to experience it.
Author Erica Baurmeister had interesting quote on this:
“Adults need to have fun so children will want to grow up”
We hold on so tight to our childhood memories, to those perfect times when nothing mattered. Sometimes we can hold on too tight. It’s important we allow ourselves times to have fun, to live and experience life as adults too. Reading is a good way to do this, sharing stories is good, but also, don’t take yourself too seriously. Do what you need to do to enjoy life (so long as that doesn’t involve harming anyone or anything else). It’s important that we lead the way for kids, that we show them that being an adult is also fun. Part of doing that is chasing your dreams and doing what you love. Like writing. So write.
Criticism is a big part of becoming a better writer (or a better anything, really). More specifically, how you deal with criticism plays a major role in your improvement and ultimately, the level of success you’ll achieve with your work. As noted in a recent post, a large part of this is your internal critic, your ability to distance yourself from your work and analyse your output, but external criticism, while sometimes difficult to take, is just as important, and how you interpret feedback, how you respond, is the actionable element of the process, the part you need to excel at.
I was playing basketball once and we were up against the best team in the competition. This was a group of guys who had played at a really high level, much higher than the competition we were in, and they were well better than the rest of our league, won the grand final season after season. I was talking to a teammate before we played them one time and he was like ‘I hate playing this team, coming out on a cold night just to get your ass kicked’. And he was right, it was annoying – it’s no fun going into a match knowing that you’re about to get destroyed – but my view on this was actually the opposite of his. I told him I like playing these guys – the problem is more that we only get to face them once every eight weeks. Playing them was an opportunity, a chance to see how you matched up and to try and work them out, maybe even get a few over on them. Yes, they were going to win, but maybe we could put some pressure on them, hit a few shots, remind them not to leave us open. Playing against them was an opportunity to improve – because if you didn’t, you were just gonna’ get trampled over and over again. You either worked harder or you gave up – it was that simple. I wasn’t prepared to give up and drop down to the next grade below, so the only other option was to take them on, keep trying. The only thing you could do was to keep working to improve.
This is how I view criticism. Critiques force you to improve. Just as an athlete trains and works out and builds herself into a better player, you need to read, you need to edit and you have to put in the work, every day. The more you do this, the more you’ll improve. Criticism is an important element of this, because while it’s not always right, it’s worth taking in, worth listening to, even just as motivation to prove them wrong. The more you face up to criticism and accept it as a challenge, something to improve and aspire to, the better off you’ll be. And here’s the thing – you will improve. You see it all the time in sports, players improve year-on-year, they get better because they have to. Because the only other option is to give up. The only way criticism will defeat you is if you give up. If you accept it, if you agree with it, and if you decide you don’t have the energy to put in the effort anymore, then you’ll have decided your own fate. But if you believe you can, that you want to succeed despite whatever odds you face, then you will. You just need to put in the work. You need to train, analyse, study successful people in your field and build an understanding of what it takes to get to that next level.
Writing is work, it’s consistent effort, consistent reading and practice to understand and improve. The only way you stop improving is when you stop. Period. If you’re happy with where you’re at, that’s fine, no need to put in any more work. If you think those professional writers and authors on bookstore shelves are well above your standard, that they’re too high to even consider comparing your work against, then you’re right. But if you really want to succeed, if you take criticism as a call to action, rather than a cue to shut down, then you will improve. And you’ll keep progressing towards that next level of success.
I’m not sure we take the right approach in how we teach kids poetry. From a young age we’re exposed to poems via nursery rhymes and what we’re taught is that poetry is rhyming couplets. Dr Suess tells us, then later pop music – the only real exposure we get to what poetry is rhyme, repeated patterns and verse. And that’s fine, in no way would I ever disparage the skill it takes to create great rhyming poetry, but it’s also a very narrow view of what poetry is and can be. The problem is, we’re given such limited exposure to other forms of poetry. What’s more, while there are many brilliant examples of rhyming poetry, it is a true skill to master, and there are even more examples of bad rhyming couplets – and let’s face it, even amidst the greatest rhyming poems there’s normally a couple of laboured lines and references that have been jammed in, in order to stay in theme.
My issue with this is that we might be restricting people’s view of what poetry is by teaching them only one narrow view of the form. When people hear poetry, they think ‘Roses are red…’, that sort of light, generic, often tacky, form of expression. They think of jokes, of rhythmic language that’s used in movie clichés. They think of kids books, that poetry is something for kids, when really, the means of expression via poetic form are so wide, so unrestricted, and rhyming verse is only one small part of the equation. Poetry is the closest thing to connecting thoughts through language. It’s translating emotion, creating connections in the readers’ brains that connect on a higher level than the language alone. Poetry can be transformative and transcendent and more than most people might think it to be.
I know how many people view poetry. I know, because I once viewed it that way too – I’m a story writer, and have always been focussed on story. Poetry was like a joke to me – you put a few words together that may or may not mean something and if you can find the right balance between being vague enough that people can find their own meaning, and so vague that the words don’t even connect, then you’ve got yourself a poem. I even tested this in high school – we were doing poetry in English and one of my classmates asked how you do it. I wrote a poem about crying in the rain, with deliberately vague lines like: ‘My optimistic pessimism’. It got published in the school paper, then it got published in a state-wide street press publication:
This reinforced my view, poetry was easy and not to be taken seriously.
My view changed on this after reading Fight Club. This wasn’t because the language of Fight Club was so poetic, but from Fight Club I researched all I could about the author, Chuck Palahniuk. Palahniuk listed one of his favourite authors as Amy Hempel, so I went on to read all her stuff. Hempel is phenomenal – if you haven’t read any of Amy Hempel’s work, you’re missing out, and you need to get over to Amazon now and order a couple of her books. Her short story collection ‘Reasons to Live’ changed the way I think about writing – Hempel’s style is something that can’t be replicated, so intricate and subtle that, as Palahniuk says: ‘all you can do is lie on the floor, face down, and praise it.’
Fran Lebowitz still writes about the moment she first looked at a clock and grasped the concept of telling time. Hempel’s work is nothing but these flashes, and every flash makes you ache with recognition. –Chuck Palahniuk on Amy Hempel
Hempel is both a short fiction writer and a poet, with several volumes of both in circulation. The combination of the two is what makes her so brilliant – Hempel can extract the emotion from the most mundane moment and translate it into a thing of beauty. This is not ‘Hempel the Writer’, at work, it’s ‘Hempel the Poet’, but the two have become so intertwined that her prose transcends the parameters of either form. For example, here is one of my favourite Amy Hempel stories – the first story of hers I read, and the one that made me want to buy everything she’d ever written:
My heart — I thought it stopped. So I got in my car and headed for God. I passed two churches with cars parked in front. Then I stopped at the third because no one else had. It was early afternoon, the middle of the week. I chose a pew in the center of the rows. Episcopal or Methodist, it didn’t make any difference. It was as quiet as a church. I thought about the feeling of the long missed beat, and the tumble of the next ones as they rushed to fill the space. I sat there — in the high brace of quiet and stained glass — and I listened.
At the back of my house I can stand in the light from the sliding glass door and look out onto the deck. The deck is planted with marguerites and succulents in red clay pots. One of the pots is empty. It is shallow and broad, and filled with water like a birdbath.
My cat takes naps in the windowbox. Her gray chin is powdered with the iridescent dust from butterfly wings. If I tap on the glass, the cat will not look up. The sound that I make is not food.
When I was a girl I sneaked out at night. I pressed myself to hedges and fitted the shadows of trees. I went to a construction site near the lake. I took a concrete-mixing tub, slid it to the shore, and sat down inside it like a saucer. I would push off from the sand with one stolen oar and float, hearing nothing, for hours.
The birdbath is shaped like that tub.
I look at my nails in the harsh bathroom light. The scare will appear as a ripple at the base. It will take a couple of weeks to see.
I lock the door and run a tub of water.
Most of the time you don’t really hear it. A pulse is a thing that you feel. Even if you are somewhat quiet. Sometimes you hear it through the pillow at night. But I know that there is a place where you can hear it even better than that. Here is what you do. You ease yourself into a tub of water, you ease yourself down. You lie back and wait for the ripples to smooth away. Then you take a deep breath, and slide your head under, and listen for the playfulness of your heart.
It’s a perfect example of Hempel’s work – simple but complex, mundane but poetic. It isn’t straight-forward storytelling, but there is such a resonant story there, even this very short piece. It’s a connective work, the way Hempel has used language to build layer upon layer. It’s more than just prose writing, it’s another level of literary expression. And I wanted to read more.
Hempel’s work lead me onto Sharon Olds, who’s an amazing poet, one of the best I’ve ever read. Like Hempel, Olds’ work transcends the confines of what you may think poetry can be. While Olds doesn’t have the prose leanings of Hempel, her poems tell a story nonetheless, and she’s often able to tell a more powerful story than many can in novel-form. One of my favourite Olds poems is this:
Summer Solstice, New York City
By the end of the longest day of the year he could not stand it,
he went up the iron stairs through the roof of the building
and over the soft, tarry surface
to the edge, put one leg over the complex green tin cornice
and said if they came a step closer that was it.
Then the huge machinery of the earth began to work for his life,
the cops came in their suits blue-grey as the sky on a cloudy evening,
and one put on a bullet-proof vest, a
black shell around his own life,
life of his children’s father, in case
the man was armed, and one, slung with a
rope like the sign of his bounden duty,
came up out of a hole in the top of the neighboring building
like the gold hole they say is in the top of the head,
and began to lurk toward the man who wanted to die.
The tallest cop approached him directly,
softly, slowly, talking to him, talking, talking,
while the man’s leg hung over the lip of the next world
and the crowd gathered in the street, silent, and the
hairy net with its implacable grid was
unfolded near the curb and spread out and
stretched as the sheet is prepared to receive at a birth.
Then they all came a little closer
where he squatted nest to his death, his shirt
glowing its milky glow like something
growing in a dish at night in the dark in a lab and then
as his body jerked and he
stepped down from the parapet and went toward them
and they closed on him, I thought they were going to
beat him up, as a mother whose child has been
lost will scream at the child when it’s found, they
took him by the arms and held him up and
leaned him against the wall of the chimney and the
tall cop lit a cigarette
in his own mouth, and gave it to him, and
then they all lit cigarettes, and the
red, glowing ends burned like the
tiny campfires we lit at night
back at the beginning of the world.
This is a story, right? This is more prose-like than you’d expect a poem to be, but it’s also definitely a poem. The words carry such weight, each line is crafted and precise. Olds’ poetry taught me the importance of ‘language economics’, of the need to be concise and ensure each sentence reaches it’s full potential – there’s so much more to this poem that the words on the page. Great poetry uses the experiences and associations of the reader to build the greater context, rather than explaining it to them – which is true also of great prose writing – but nothing illustrates this point better than a great poem. One line can change everything, can hit you so hard. Poetry taught me the importance of rhythm and timing, and word placement in general. These are the tools you need to be able to communicate well. Poetry showcases those skills better than any other form.
Knowledge of poetry better informs you as a writer and helps you find better ways to communicate your story. Cormac McCarthy’s ‘The Road’ is one of the best examples of poetic description in prose form, and it’s so much more resonant because of it. A sequence like this:
By then it was already evening. Just the slow periodic rack and shuffle of the oarlocks. The lake dark glass and windowlights coming on along the shore. A radio somewhere. Neither of them had spoken a word. This was the perfect day of his childhood. This the day to shape the days upon – Cormac McCarthy, The Road
This is poetry, this is connecting emotion via language – sentence construction aligned with thought. It’s more than just the sum of its parts, than just the words alone, there’s a beauty to it’s simplicity. If I’d presented this as a poem, you’d not have thought twice about it. But it’s used in prose, in a Pulitzer Prize winning novel, no less. This is the potential of poetic expression. It’s far more than just rhyme.
With a newfound respect for poetry, I started to investigate and appreciate other forms of the medium. And while it’s often lambasted as the height of pretentiousness, spoken word poetry, when done well, can be extremely powerful. The thing that many miss is that the performance is a major part – it’s ‘performance poetry’ not a poetry reading. At the Melbourne Writers’ Festival a few years back, I remember Canadian performance poet Shane Koyczan had done a session. Koyczan had his mostly female audience swooning, all because of his delivery of lines like:
looking at you it occurred to me
I could sit around all day
wearing nothing but your kiss
– Shane Koyczan, Skin 2
And one of my favourite performances was by ‘Coded Language’ by Saul Williams.
It’s passionate, resonant and again, it’s more than the sum of it’s parts, more than the words alone.
So this is why I don’t think we take the right approach to how we teach poetry, because I would have never thought to look at these things, I’d have never come across the greater opportunities of creative expression through poetry without finding it in my own way. I realise one of the main challenges of education is engagement, finding ways to get kids interested in what’s being taught, and no doubt that’s a barrier, but I feel like we need to reinforce that real poetry is so much more than rhyming couplets. Maybe I’m wrong, maybe educators are doing all they can, but there’s so much opportunity for expression through poetry, so much more than what people might interpret ‘poetry’ to be. While it’ll never be mainstream, by highlighting all these other avenues, maybe we can encourage more participation in poetic expression, and get in touch with more amazing writing as a result. At the least, knowledge of poetic expression will improve your written communication, in all forms.
We all like to think that our likes are interests are totally unique, right? We’re into this new show that you may not have heard about, we’ve read this new book that’s just come out – we all like to believe that our likes and interests are very different from anyone else. But they’re not. Stereotypes exist for a reason – the things you like the most probably have a large following that you may or may not be aware of. Things like Game of Thrones, for example – when that first came out, I remember thinking it was amazing, but no one was really watching it, like I’d found something that I had to share with everyone else. But actually, I was put onto it by a friend who’d read the books, and it’s now one of the most popular TV shows in the world, even though it’s full of violence and bad language and things that you’d expect might confine its audience size to some degree. Because the things people like tend to be things others will like also – your interests and cultural leanings are just not that unique.
But here’s the thing – that also means that you should trust yourself more. Remember how you were drawn to the character of Boba Fett in Star Wars even though he wasn’t one of the main players? You thought no one else paid that much attention to him, but Boba Fett was actually everyone’s favourite character. When they were doing that interview on TV the other day, you couldn’t take your eyes off the chumps in the background, smiling and waving at the camera and calling their friends at home, asking them to switch over and check them out, right? The things you notice, the details that stand out to you that you think might have been missed by the rest of the world – nope, we all noticed the same thing. What stands out to you most probably stands out to everyone else, and what this should highlight to you is that your responses are more common than you think. So trust them.
This is something that you need to understand as a writer or blogger or creator of any kind, really – the details that stand out to you will stand out to other people. This is not a bad thing, it’s actually reassuring, knowing that the world you see is shared by many other people – we’re more connected than you think. Maybe we can’t all communicate it, maybe we’re restrained in our connection with other people, but that guy on the train reading the paper, you’d probably be able to talk to him for hours about 90’s movies. That woman over ordering a juice, she’d totally relate to your anecdotes about living in a shared house. Our experiences are not as dissimilar as we train ourselves to believe, strangers are not as strange, and what this really means is that you can put more trust in yourself, more trust in your audience, and share things the way you see them. More often than not, you don’t need to over-explain, you don’t need to second-guess the way you’re communicating, people will get it. Put yourself in the position of the audience, think of how you’d respond to your work, what reaction would you have to reading this? Your viewpoint will likely be shared, and while it’s never easy to analyse your work from an impartial perspective, you need to trust yourself and rely on your instincts – if this were written by someone else, would it work for you?
Everyone else lives in the same world you do, we all experience similar things, similar problems and troubles. Everyone’s overcome difficulties, everyone feels down sometime – the things that make others happy are most likely the things that make you happy. Definitely, our overall perspectives are different, our viewpoint is ours alone, and that’s what provides opportunities for new stories, new and interesting ways of connecting, but we’re not as dissimilar as we tend to believe. So don’t stress about communicating with people, about saying the wrong things, being the right person. Remain true to yourself and trust that what you have to say is important. While you can always improve on how to do this effectively, you should also realise that you are not alone and create with that in mind.
One of the biggest factors contributing to the success of your writing is how good of an internal critic you are. How objectively can you view your own work? How much are you able to put yourself into the mind of your readers when you edit and re-write? This is crucial and probably the most significant difference between a good writer and a great one – it’s one thing to be able to write a story, it’s another to view that story as someone else would, and to be able to cut and edit your sentences from that point of view. With that in mind, here are a few tips to help improve your own editing process.
1. Let everything you write rest before editing
Nothing increases objectivity like distance – it’s like when you end a relationship and it’s devastating and you’re a wreck, but then over time you start to see things more clearly, see the issues and problems that existed beneath your rose-coloured memories. Writing is the same – you’ve spent a long time thinking about the piece, you’ve worked on it in your head, it’s kept you up at night going over it and some of those sentences have arrived to you in such pristine fashion, there’s no way they won’t make the final cut. Once you’ve let something sit, you’re able to review it without that level of emotional attachment. The longer you can leave it, the less likely you’re going to be blinded by personal connection and the more likely you’ll be able to view it as just another piece of writing – and that’s the best way to edit. If you can read your own work as if it’s someone else’s, like you would any other piece, then you can truly unlock your objectivity and see flaws for what they are. And then you can correct them.
2. If your mind’s drifting as you re-read, there’s a problem
I’ve spoken to writers who’ve justified this, to some degree, by saying they might have trouble focussing on the piece because they wrote it, they’re intimately familiar with the story. If you created it, it’s going to be harder for you to be excited or engaged, right? In the vast majority of cases, I don’t believe that way of thinking is correct. If your thoughts are wandering as you read, it’s likely your readers are going to drift too, and if they drift, then your work hasn’t connected and you’ll lose them very quick. Don’t dismiss flow issues or engagement lapses, they’re all indicative of problems you need to, at the least, re-assess. If a section loses you, you need to review the structure and understand why the sequence seems off. You can go crazy on this, I know, you can get hung up on small issues that’ll never feels quite right, but it’s important that you do investigate and understand any areas where things don’t sit as they should. It’s like when you get feedback – you take in all feedback, listen to what the person has to say, then you re-read the section. If it communicates what you intended, that’s fine, but even if you don’t agree with their criticism, it’s worth re-assessing, ensuring the message is delivered as you want.
3. Editing is going to take you way more time than writing
If it doesn’t, you’re either extremely lucky or you’re not maximising the potential of your work. I was reading an interview with a musician once who talked about how he’ll do more than 50 vocal takes for every track he creates to ensure that he gets the best version for his final piece. This is ‘the work’, as he explained it, and he’d seen many musicians who weren’t willing to do ‘the work’ fall by the wayside because they would do three takes, feel one of them was perfect, then want to move on. Attention to detail is the difference between good and great. This is true in everything, but very much so in writing. How many times has a small error in a piece stood out to you? How many times have you seen an error in a piece by an accomplished writer? Attention to detail is a sign of professionalism, and while people can get over a minor mistake here or there (everyone makes them, I probably have in this post), you don’t want to give your readers anything that could divert their attention from the piece. A small mistake is like a bump in the road, it can distract you from the main narrative momentarily. Too many bumps, and they become the narrative themselves. You should always edit, then edit, then edit again before you even think about releasing your work, because you’ll always, always, always find issues, no matter how naturally gifted you think you are. Always.
Accepting that editing is just as significant a part of the writing process is important, but ideally, you also need to make yourself just as excited about the editing process as the writing itself. How? By thinking of your readers, by keeping in mind why you’re doing ‘the work’. Because the better it is, the better it’ll be received and the more likely you’ll reach a wider audience. And it can be an engaging process – you’ve written your first draft, but now you get to go back and find ways to improve it, to make it even better. That’s genuinely exciting, it’s great to read through and find ways you can make sentences better, to think over progressions and words and improve the final product. You are not only the writer of each piece you create, you’re the first reader, and you have the chance to shape that story into what you want. How many times have you watched a movie and thought ‘it would’ve been better if…’ The more objective you can be, the more you can actually do this with your own drafts.
4. Is that how you would say it?
One of the more common pieces of writing advice is to ‘write like you talk’. And like most tips (e.g. ‘write what you know’) there’s really more of a middle ground truth to this. Definitely, you should review your writing and ensure it flows naturally. The reader will have a voice in their head as they read, and if that voice sounds inauthentic or starts saying things that stumble in the flow, it’s another bump in the road that could, potentially, turn them off. I highly recommend reading your work out loud to ensure the flow is right – it’ll highlight things no other method can, and the more you do it, the more your internal monologue gets attuned to sentence flow, and you’ll make fewer mistakes in your initial drafts. But you need to also ensure that you’re communicating effectively for each piece, which is not always exactly like you talk. For example, if you’re writing fiction, it’s crucial that you write how the characters would talk, not you. For non-fiction, you can’t use slang as you might in regular conversation for every piece. There’s a level of self-awareness required to accompany this advice – it’s not necessarily how you would talk, it’s how you would talk to the intended audience of the piece.
The most common errors I see on this front are things like ‘you are’ when it would read better as ‘you’re’, ‘it is’ instead of ‘it’s’. These types of common contractions are very much in tune with how we communicate – a simple sentence like ‘it is crucial that you are aware of this’ is grammatically correct, but no one would say it like that in real life. Your words are translated into a voice in the reader’s mind, and it’s important you communicate like a real person to avoid any chance of losing their attention.
Being able to distance yourself and view your own work with a critical eye is integral to your success as a writer. If you write one draft, don’t re-read, and send it out, I guarantee you will fail. No one, no writer in the world gets it perfect in one try. You need to embrace editing and improve your self-awareness by benchmarking your work against the best (as a comparison, not in admiration) and come to it as the first reader of your content. The better you can do this, the more likely you’ll make your work the best it can possibly be.
(This is a short fiction piece I wrote a while back, part of a series of shorts I worked on – hope you like it. And warning, some bad language)
Of all of it, the months I spent in the beach town, right out at the edge of the Earth, those are the ones I remember. The memories I see when I close my eyes. The sun warming across the backs of the white sand grains. The desert weeds flickering in the gusts. Of all the times, those were the days I felt happiest about. The times that would return in dream.
I’d got in with this group of people who’d come to the beach and decided they never wanted to leave. Minds flooded with childhood memories and adulthood hurts. They’d created this community of deserters all living in this two storey house, growing their own vegetables, generating their own electricity. Re-using their waste. Jobs were hard to come by, so only a few of them worked and then I came in and I got a job at the service station just off the freeway. Every week we’d pool the money earned by the ones who worked and we’d buy essentials which were listed in order on a piece of paper in the kitchen. They sang songs, which I didn’t like, but I could sit and smile and pretend I didn’t know the words, my face burning from the camp fire blaze. It was simple, living with them. No one wanted to know who you were, what you’d done. Everyone just was. Everyone just wanted to enjoy life.
There were at least twenty people in that house. Drifters would come through town and sleep on floors – they always had odd names like Rex or Pardy or Jai. They were just wandering through life, these guys, hitch-hiking one town to the next. No pressure, no concerns. They just lived a day at a time. I thought, for a while, that this was how I should be. This was what I should be. I asked lots of questions about how they did it, how they went about life, but a lot of the time it sounded difficult and unpleasant and they never really wanted to say too much and I figured it was best to stay where I was. In the beach sun it was idealistic, but when the rain set in. Sickness is difficult with nowhere to rest.
They had an outdoor shower. What it was was a bucket that they’d fill with warm water, then, once it was full, they’d drag it up by rope over a tree branch and it had these tiny holes in the bottom that would leak the water out and you’d stand beneath it and wash yourself, right out in the open. Sometimes, I’d watch the women do it, I’d stand at a distance and watch the soap bubbles sliding over their nipples and their curves, gathering at the edges of their hair. It was amazing.
We were working on building another room, gathering wood and nails from building sites in the night and buying other parts as we could afford them, bit by bit. One of the men used to be a builder and he told us how to connect this to that and I listened to everything and tried to make sure I didn’t saw anything uneven or bend any nails. He said I was a good worker, put his arm around me at the end of the day. I couldn’t remember ever feeling so happy.
At nights we’d play board games and read stories from the newspaper and they’d talk about the latest news and politics and I had no idea what they were saying most of the time. Other nights we’d go to those big metal Salvation Army donation bins and we’d jump inside, sift through what was there. We’d push out bags of jumpers and pants and t-shirts and bring back what we needed. Sometimes, someone would sleep right up beside you, hug onto you, and you’d just go with it. That’s just how it was, it didn’t mean anything.
One time some drifter fucking yelled at me. He was tanned with this curly, long blonde hair and he was yelling about me working for a big oil company, saying they were responsible for some shit and I was responsible too because I took their money and I clenched my fist, ready to punch the fucking teeth out of his head and then the others yelled back at the blonde guy. They put their hands onto my shoulders and they pointed and yelled and then they kicked him out, that guy, pushed him out into the night. They patted me on the back and on the head and the girls kissed me on the cheek and I watched that guy leave from the window, dragging his backpack beneath the blue of the full moon. He kept stopping and turning round and yelling some more, then he was gone, drifted out into the darkness.
Lost beneath the sounds of the waves washing in.
There was one night when I was working and it was real quiet, no one was around – there never was late at night. Then these two guys came rushing through the electronic doors, both in balaclavas and singlets and shorts and the two men rushed to the counter and one of them pointed a hand gun right at my face and I stood up, put my hands in the air.
‘Don’t worry.’ The man with the gun said. His eyes poked through the woollen holes. ‘Just give us the money, it’s all good.’ And I knew the man’s voice. I stayed still.
‘C’mon man, it’s cool, it’s all under insurance, we worked it all out.’ He was one of the drifters, this guy, I couldn’t remember which one. ‘You just give us the money and we walk out, simple. We’ll give you a cut after.’
I shook my head slow.
‘C’mon man, you can talk. The cameras don’t record sound, it’s just video. You just have to make it look like you’re scared and take out the money.’
‘No, they do record sound.’ I told the drifter. ‘They showed me when they went through the training.’ The man looked to the other guy, then up at the camera.
‘You’ve fucked me.’ I told him. ‘I’ll have to leave now, because they’re gonna’ think I was in on it.’
The man lowered the gun, kept looking at the other guy.
‘Fuck.’ The man said, then he raised the gun again, poked it towards me. ‘Okay, well if we’re fucked anyway, we should just take the money, right? Just take it all out and we’ll just go.’
‘You fucking idiot.’ I said. I was furious, my fists shaking up by my head. ‘You’ve fucked everything up.’
‘Hey, don’t fucken yell at me, I’ve got a gun.’
‘You fucken idiot.’ I yelled. I could feel the warmth of tears bubbling round my eyes. ‘I’m gonna’ get you.’
‘Hey.’ The man yelled. ‘You ain’t gonna’ do shit. Now we are where we are, that’s how it is. Now, you need to get me the fucking money and hand it over, right?’
I stared him down. Those stupid eyes, poking out that black beanie. The man looked out to the road, like maybe someone was coming.
‘C’mon, c’mon, get the money.’ He roared, poked the gun towards me again, the barrel right up at my face now.
‘You pull the fucking trigger.’ I told him. The man hissed, looked away, then back at me.
‘C’mon man. Just give me the fucking money.’
‘You pull the trigger.’ Tears were sliding out now, dragging down my skin. ‘You’ve ruined me.’ I stared straight into the barrel, straight into the darkness of it.
‘Get the fucking money.’ He yelled, pushed the barrel into my cheek and I closed my eyes, held my breath.
Here are three of the questions the police asked me, in no particular order:
‘Did you know the men who robbed the service station?’
‘Did you assist the men in the planning and execution of the robbery?’
‘Did you know you’re wanted on burglary charges back in Melbourne?’
Here are my answers to those questions, also in no order:
Either way you look at it, I was fucked.
I’m always writing. I write 1000 words a day – but I aim for 3000 – and that’s spread across various articles, fiction, specific projects, etc. Some of these turn into posts or stories, some become larger projects and then others, they sit. I submit to different places, save things I’ll come back to later, but sometimes pieces come together and I don’t have a home for them. But I have to write them – really, I have such a compulsion to write that it eats at me if I don’t get them all out. With that, I thought I might start posting some of those pieces here. Short essays, fiction, things that I really like but that don’t necessarily fit anywhere specific. Today, I went to see Ben Watt speak at the Melbourne Writers’ Festival, and he was great. He was talking about his new book, a memoir of his family life, or more, his parents’ relationship, and when I got home, I was inspired. I thought maybe I’d have a go at it – I’m obviously not as high-profile as Ben Watt, and my life isn’t as interesting. But the way he wrote, the beautiful way he presented parts of his life, it fascinated me. So here’s a short, non-fiction piece about my Dad. Hope you like it.
My Dad would change the channel when those road safety awareness ads came one. You know the ones, with the graphic depictions of car accidents, shoulder blades splashing into windscreens. There was this one where there was a kid on a road and a car sped through and trampled him, tumbling his body beneath. My Dad couldn’t watch that one, the images too painful in his head, memories he could smell, feel. We didn’t know, we were just kids. We didn’t understand. So what if some kid gets run over by a car on TV, it’s not real, right? But Dad had seen it for real, he’d been there when it happened. Held bloody hands as warmth faded from them. He knew those scenes more than anyone should.
He was an ambulance officer, my Dad, but before that, he’d served in Vietnam, a career history that my brother and I cherished as kids. He had models of army helicopters and remainders of ration packs in drawers and Dad had pictures of himself with machine guns and riding in helicopters, looking down onto the jungle. Dad was a hero, a real life army man who then went on to save lives in the ambulance. I remember times when our weekend trips would be halted, my brother and I strapped in our seats, waiting by the roadside because Dad had stopped to help at some accident. We played with GI Joes when we were kids, we idolised those characters. Those were my Dad. That’s what he did. That’s what we knew.
When he started to show the effects we didn’t understand. He’d be angry for no reason, upset and we didn’t know why. He started switching the channel away from those ads and we’d be like ‘what are you doing?’ and he never wanted to say and he’d clench his teeth then leave the room. Mum would tell us Dad doesn’t like those ads. Then things got really bad. I remember Dad sitting on the floor in the kitchen, his head low, back against the laundry door. He had a carving knife in his hand. We didn’t understand, but Dad had taken on one thing too many, seen more than anyone ever should. And he couldn’t take anymore.
Eventually he got help. He talked to people and he stopped work and he got a returned services pension. He’s still damaged, still broken, but he’s okay. And he’s still a hero to me, someone who’s done amazing things, things of great pride. But what we didn’t know is that heroes are human too. Everyone has a breaking point, you can only numb yourself to so much. Sometimes I see him, when he doesn’t know I’m watching, and he’s just looking at his hands.
And I remember that one time, when I came home from school after bragging to my friends about my Dad, how he was in the Army and a soldier and I came home to him, an eight year-old kid, and I stood in front of him and said: ‘Dad, have you ever killed anyone?’
Because we didn’t know.