In the fall, I spend Saturday afternoons sitting on an aluminum seat, watching my beloved Louisville Cardinals play something that passes for football. The general process of watching these games goes something like this:
Enter the gate and watch the Cards find a way to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory. Complain about the coaching and generally act like we know what he's doing wrong.
COMPLAIN about the coaching and generally ACT like we know what he's doing wrong.
On my way home from the last game, I was suddenly struck by how much this last bit reminded me of several conversations I've had with various people who call themselves writers.
You know who I'm talking about.
It's that person who's always hanging around the on-line chat area that adamantly voices the "rules" of the trade, but never has anything on the market. It's that individual who knows what Gardner Dozois is buying this month, but hasn't sold a story in the past three years. It's . . . well . . . I could go on forever.
Take this for what it's worth, and realize that I'm perhaps a bit cranky after being sleep-deprived for the past week or more, but these "writers" are starting to really bother me.
Seriously.
Mike Resnick once told me that you're not a writer until you've sold a story to a professional market. Unfortunately, he made the "mistake" of telling that to a scad of new writers at the same time. For this sin, he paid the price of being unmercifully flamed by a bunch of people who started getting the dictionary out to support their argument. (Ever notice how people who grab a dictionary to argue a point generally don't get it?) Never mind that Mike is among the most decorated and well-off science fiction writers in the field, he had intruded upon egos and was to be put in his place. Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead.
At the time, I didn't consider myself a writer, despite having written seriously for over two years. I sided with Mike. You can call it sucking up if you want, I really don't mind because I know what it was. (It wasn't.) And now that Mike knows me a bit better, he understands what it was, too. So think what you will.
Now that I've sold a dozen stories professionally, I can only say the feeling is even stronger.
Writing well enough to sell in the professional market is the hardest thing I've ever done. It takes talent. And it takes luck. And it takes guts. And it takes wanting it more than you want other things.
Ever notice how on-line lurkers never have enough time to write, but always have enough time to chat?
I'm talking priorities here. I'm talking taking control of your life and setting goals. People who are writers are among the most goal-oriented people I know. Note, one does not have to be organized to be goal-oriented! And when push comes to shove, they have developed a vital talent--that ultimately selfish act of giving their writing priority over almost everything in their life.
If you're not writing because you don't have enough time, then you're not a writer. If you're not writing because you haven't quite fleshed out the last bits of that great idea you have, then you're not a writer. If you're not writing because . . . then you're not a writer.
And likewise, selling.
It's a whole package.
If you're not writing (for whatever reason), you're not a writer. If you're not selling work professionally, you're not a writer.
Get over it.
Don't get caught up in the details, folks. I'm talking profession here, not rudimentary activity.
I play basketball every fall, yet I am not a basketball player. Michael Jordan is a basketball player. As is Alex Sanders (U of L center), who is receiving something--an education worth several thousand dollars--in return for his services. For the purposes of discussion of the point, I'm even willing to believe at least some high school players fit the category if they are being actively courted by a college. I'm not here to pick nits.
There's nothing terribly ignoble about not being a writer. And being told you're not a writer is not meant to be an insult.
I've been working at it since 1991 and I barely qualify.
So, why the rant now, you might ask?
Well, to be honest, I'm ashamed of myself.
Driving home from this week's Louisville game (we won, by the way) I realized that as I stand around swapping stories with my college friends, talking about the bonehead calls the coaching staff made, or the pass the defensive back should have intercepted, I'm doing the same thing that those writers who don't are doing when they talk about the profession. I'm pretending I know something that I don't. Just because I played Little League football doesn't mean I know anything about coaching the sport. Just because I have an opinion doesn't mean I'm qualified to voice it. Yes, I'm free, to
do so--if you've read this far, this little rant is enough to prove that. But I'm not qualified to tell Ron Cooper how to coach.
I can certainly judge the quality of the end product, and just like I can choose whether to buy the next Orson Scott Card series by the quality I perceive of his previous series, I can choose whether to purchase a ticket to the game.
But Ron Cooper is a better football coach than I am. I'm not qualified to tell him what to do. And he's justified in getting angry at me (and those people like me) who get on his case. Just like I'm justified in being a bit put off by writers who don't write telling me how I should comport myself in this business.
I'm taking a vow today.
No more questioning the calls. No more complaining when a running back misses a hole, or a linebacker misses a tackle.
At least not until I've walked in their shoes.