Author: Elizabeth Percer

One of my favorite sayings is that a book is not finished until it is read. I find so many helpful insights woven into this statement. First, it reminds me that all this toiling I’m doing behind closed doors is not because I’m antisocial and unwell, but because I’m willing to go deep and long if it will help carve out more meaningful lines of communication. Second, it helps me to contextualize the need to define my audience, a task I think many writers find baffling.

The first few times I was asked to define what kind of audience I was writing for, I had no idea how to respond. I don’t know, I would think, a big one? In super-mature fashion, I came up empty handed so many times, I started to feel a little self-righteously indignant. Wasn’t I supposed to be doing my best to write according to my own sensibilities and unique voice? Weren’t artists supposed to create without caring what anyone else might think?

I didn’t know it at the time, but I was repeatedly hitting my head against one of the biggest paradoxes of a writer’s approach to her work. We absolutely should be writing in our own voices and drawing on our own experiences, but we cannot forget that, ultimately, writing is an act of communication. Most art is, really. And going too far in the direction of writing for oneself can be just as dangerous, creatively speaking, as trying too hard to pen a bestseller.

As with any piece of writing advice, there’s an art to working with it. In this case, I find the idea that a work needs a reader to be complete particularly appealing, because rather than placing the emphasis on how others might judge our work, it places it on the fact that writers and readers need each other in order to experience the best the written word has to offer.

What’s more, the fact is that 99.9% of us are myopic about our work. If we give it any kind of close attention, it’s all too easy to lose sight of the forest for the trees, and having someone look in on our imaginary playgrounds from the outside can give us invaluable perspective on how well they’re really holding up. I think, in fact, that we should hope and strive to have readers in our lives who compassionately point out flaws in our writing that we never saw, not because revealing what we didn’t see shines light on our technical or imaginative shortcomings, but because we know that, without an outside perspective, we’re robbing ourselves of the ability to see our work fully. The writing, in other words, might be done in private, but the awareness of the writing simply cannot be generated alone.

So when I think about defining an audience, I start with people I already trust to give me valuable feedback on how I’m presenting myself to the world. My sisters. My best friend. My husband. They’re always in the front row. And seated next to them are their friends and trusted advisers. I have a few critics in there, sure, because I’m my own worst enemy, but I try to introduce a bouncer who regularly checks to be sure that most of the remaining seats are filled with people who love the books I love, people who care and wonder about the same things, people whose books I’d want to read, should they offer them to me. Eventually, my audience becomes people who would be keeping literature alive for me anyway, even if I never chose to write another word.

Art: Rembrandt, St. Jerome Reading in a Landscape

The longer you hang around writers, the weirder the conversation gets. Usually, this is a good thing, as long as alcohol isn’t involved. If alcohol is involved, gird your loins and take notes.

But when the conversation is good, it is, at the very least, though provoking. Years ago, after an agonizing, two-hour workshop discussion on how to handle the fact that our own truths, in print, might not sit particularly well with those we hold dear, our beloved instructor cut us off. “Just pretend everyone you know is dead,” he said. “Nothing is more important than the writing.”

I get why this might seem, at first pass, terrific advice. First off, it’s hard to forget. Second, it speaks boldly to a universal difficulty so many writers have. Many of us get our best material from our worst experiences, and some of us even become writers because we were silenced or denied our truths from an early age, and we find it ever-so-slightly therapeutic to put them in print and distribute them as widely as possible, preferably nationwide. Still, no one wants to actually throw Uncle Henry under the bus (no matter how much he might deserve it), not least because Thanksgiving is coming up and we’d rather eat pie in peace than navigate his seething fury for an afternoon.

But that’s not the only reason why I’m not a huge fan of this advice. In general, I’m not a fan of writing advice that smacks of desperation, ultimatums, or wishful thinking. I used to find such extremes liberating, but, like most extremes, their charms are limited and short-lived. Pretending everyone you love is dead might startle you into more ballsy material, but it takes a helluva lot more work to figure out ways to write about our truths without resorting to the kamikaze method of airing your dirty laundry.

This is because fiction wants to be created, not appropriated. It doesn’t want to be shocked alive; it wants to be nurtured on a solid base, one that represents the best you have to offer, including your integrity. As food for thought, around the same time I heard the above advice, I started to notice that one thing most of my favorite authors had in common was kindness. Not Disney Princess kindness. Unflinching, unapologetic kindness. Kindness in how they delivered tough truths, so they could actually be swallowed. Kindness in refusing to allow even the most minor character to come across as two-dimensional. Kindness in how they developed their voices without artifice, knowing that, while contrivance and design might seem more sexy or thrilling, the most touching thing a writer can do is stay honest.

Even if you don’t share my tastes, I think you will find that your favorite authors offer something deep and lasting, rather than something quick and shocking. And, if anything, they offer us the chance to see that we can navigate the world without having to pretend everyone we love is dead. Instead, they show us how to bring them along, flaws and all, and how doing so can make us feel more whole. Not because we are free of all responsibility and worrisome care, but because we flourish anyway.

One of the great frustrations any artist faces is measuring progress. As if it weren’t hard enough to enter into work that is, by its very nature, inventive, and therefore not designed to live up to any clear benchmarks, more often than not, the effort we put into our work is not neatly reflected in our results. We might spend days on a single moment on a single page, or bang out an entire chapter in a few hours.

Unfortunately, because most of us with at least a tenuous hold on sanity rely on logic, we tend to believe that our most productive days are the ones when we produce the most material. Superficially, this logic is sound, but on a deeper level, it’s woefully misleading. The trouble with measuring a writer’s progress against what she produces on any given day is that so much of the heavy lifting, creatively speaking, occurs long before the words line up on the page in neat and pleasant order.

This has never been more evident to me than now, when I’m a few years in to writing my first historical novel about a subject that is virtually nonexistent in fiction but widely covered in scholarship. Since I’m an incurably dutiful student, I haven’t wanted to proceed with my own take on these issues until I understand what’s already been said, which means that I’ve spend the better part of three years wandering through a forest of literature so thick there have been times I’ve felt sure that a wolf passing by to swallow me whole would be a far more merciful end than finding my way out. And now that I’ve begun to write the book itself in earnest, that same, dutiful student in me is wringing her hands when confronted with the amount of words I’ve read vs. the amount of words I’ve written. It is more than a little easy to feel overwhelmed.

But thankfully, this isn’t my first expedition into the wilderness, and as judgey and frustrated as I could be with my evident progress and the looming future, I’m honestly never been more excited about a project. Because amidst all these private cares and solitary work, I’ve never been more engaged with a challenge. Although I’ve spent actual weeks without producing a single word, what I’ve learned and tangled over and resolved during that time represents far more progress than what I might have done if I panicked, sat down, and just punched out a daily quota.

And while this might not be true for everybody, I think far more writers do far more work before they put words to a page than we ever allow for. Writing, after all, represents new ways of thinking, and this is not achieved simply by sitting down with a cup of tea and waiting for the must to show up. It requires wrassling with everything you know to discover something you don’t, and then it requires you sifting through everything you’ve ever expressed to discover something you haven’t. Much of this shaping takes place with language as the clay, but a great deal of it must also unfold while mulling and considering and debating and wondering, if not walking and sketching and mapping and listening.

The bottom line is that if you’re doing your subject justice, you won’t see words produced in lock step with the work you’ve done. What you will see is much more difficult to pinpoint, but much more pervasive. More than anything, it’s really a progression of learning, marked not by what you can show that you know, but how far you’ve come in stretching your own thinking.

So instead of worrying about how much you’ve produced, ask yourself how much you’ve persisted. Perhaps you’ve only got 100 words down for that 100,000 word saga you envision, but how much time and thought do those 100 words represent? And, if you eventually decide that you’d rather replace them with a different 100 words, not because you’re tearing yourself to shreds, but because you’ve considered them and moved on, consider how much ground you’ve gained in the process. If you honor and respect what you know you’ve done, rather than what you can point to, your writing, and everything it produces, will only be stronger.

Art: Cool Growth, Albert Koetsier

For more than two decades, I lingered in this terrible writer’s limbo of knowing I wanted to write and having no idea what to write about. I’d turn out lengthy, rich, prose pieces with no anchor or sense of story, and feel as if I’d just produced the literary equivalent of unsalted schmaltz. Part of the trouble was that I was young, and hadn’t had enough experience or perspective on that experience to really know what I wanted to say, but I think the real trouble lay in the limiting ways in which I saw subject matter.

While I’d read everything I could get my hands on, when it came to carving out my own literary terrain, I was trying to get by with two, rather grainy beacons to guide my way. The first was to “write what you know,” and the second was to “write the book you want to read.” These aren’t terrible directions to follow, but neither are those signposts that say things like “Children X-ing” and “Danger.” Sure, you get the general idea, but a few specifics wouldn’t hurt.

Instead of just writing what I know, for instance, I’ve found far better subject matter by seeking out the mysteries buried within what is familiar to me. I certainly agree that you don’t want to try to write about the Louisiana Bayou if you’ve never been any further west than Tucson, but if you just try to write about Tucson, chances are you’ll find yourself floundering myopically through a sea of childhood memories. Instead, try identifying subject matter within the familiar by asking yourself what still mystifies you about Tucson, despite knowing the general region like the back of your hand. I like to call this the To Kill a Mockingbird approach, and it rarely disappoints.

Another way into your subject matter is to study the people who make up the emotional fabric of your life. Who do you love the most? Who are your dearest friends? Greatest enemies? What do these characters share in common? Why do they resonate with you? Why are you devoted to them? What are their hidden fears and triumphs, and how do they echo yours?  Throw them all in a supermarket for an afternoon and go to town.

A further consideration is your own creative sweet spot. Are you most excited to go deep and long, or would you rather flirt on the surface? Don’t judge; just notice. Do you see yourself following one character through several books, or shaking things up every time you begin a new project? What are you reading? Be honest, here. Maybe you think you’re a Tolstoy gal, but your Kindle is recommending nothing but bodice rippers, “based on your choices.” Hint: Few writers read only one type of writing, and most find their creative sweet spots by picking and choosing from among their own, eclectic tastes. Just seek out that wonderful zone that lies right before taking yourself too seriously and well beyond underestimating yourself.

In the same vein, what sorts of hobbies and ideas preoccupy you? What do you know how to do really well? What do you do terribly but persistently? If you’re a lawyer who kayaks every weekend, then maybe a book that involves parsing through bigger questions while navigating the wild is your cup of tea. Or if you’re a drifter with a passion for spraying great walls with graffiti creations, perhaps your subject matter lies in the realm of a character who drifts on the fringes of society, reflecting its heart back at itself. This might be considered another variation on the theme of writing what you know, but it’s really about capitalizing on your existing passions, preoccupations, and unique ways of interacting with your world. One caveat: if you go too literal here, you’ll miss your creative edge. So even if you’re a politician with a passion for prostitutes, if you don’t find some distance and fabrication to separate yourself from your reality, your fiction won’t have space to breathe.

Finally, pay attention to how your voice and aesthetic can be leveraged more adroitly in the service of certain subject matters and less so in the case of others. For instance, if you’re a witty, cocktail-party denizen with neon art on your walls, you might not find your fullest expression through a book that features an old man and the sea, despite what your sophomore college professor made you think was most worthwhile. The much better book, for you, is probably one in which a glittering college student finds herself wanting to entrap a fascinatingly distant English teacher.

The point is to look closely at the richness and curiosity that’s sitting right at your fingertips, and to honor what lights you up, even if that’s writing about the collection of slugs at the bottom of your garden. Subject matter never exists in a vacuum, and what makes a story truly memorable is rarely just what it’s about, anyway. Instead, it’s the sense that you’ve connected with the author’s innermost light, and that it illuminates a new way of seeing your own hidden gems.  

Art: Pablo Picasso, Owl

One of the most confounding aspects of writing is how hard it can be to just get started. We finally finish playing whack-a-mole with all the usual demands on our time, manage to squirrel away an hour or two to ourselves, only to sit down, take a deep breath, turn on the computer, wait patiently for a few minutes, panic, and start watching YouTube. Rinse and repeat.

Yes, I’m looking at you.

Traditionally, most of us shame or question ourselves when this happens. We tell ourselves we have nothing to say, and that our hoary third grade teacher was right when she said we had no work ethic. Or we decide we have writer’s block, as if all this writing stuff is entirely out of our hands and something outside ourselves is preventing us from getting in. Or we doubt our sanity and talent, privately but deeply concerned that we’re willing to move heaven and earth to get the chance to write, only to squander those precious few hours or minutes in procrastination and misery.

I’ve been writing regularly for over twenty years, and I am still not immune to this wicked cycle of self-flagellation. But I’ve learned the hard way that there are excellent reasons for why it’s so hard to begin, none of which have anything to do with mysterious forces beyond my control, or the imminent discovery of my worthlessness as a human being, or an undiagnosed mental illnesses (all mine have been diagnosed, thank you very much). Instead, I’ve found that understanding the nature of this particular beast is a huge asset in learning to step past it with all my limbs intact. And the truth is, I think this reluctance to begin that so many writers punish themselves over is actually an excellent sign of a healthy psyche.

In fact, I find it particularly odd that we’re so willing to tear ourselves down in the face of this resistance, when the reasons why it shows up are so eminently practical. As a for instance, many of us know that the best writing comes from a place of authenticity and honesty, two qualities many of us have yet to consistently share with our own children, and yet we freak out when they can’t be summoned at the snap of our fingers. And we also know that writing involves venturing into the dark unknown of our own minds without a flashlight, and yet we still berate ourselves for hesitating at that threshold. We’ll even readily admit at cocktail parties that it’s entirely possible we’ll pour years into our work and it still might not see the light of the day, yet what we’re willing to laugh over with strangers can become perfectly beastly behind closed doors.

To add salt to the wound, many writers tend to come to writing because we love reading, and we can’t get enough of it, and we’ve formed Very Strong Opinions about what constitutes a successful foray on the page. So right out of the gate, we have exceptionally high – if not downright inhuman(e) – standards. And if we come to our own budding efforts without checking these standards at the door, it’s a little like holding Michelangelo’s David above the head of the nearest kindergartner getting ready to open his finger paints.

It’s no wonder that every last protective mechanism within you raises its hackles when faced with a blank page. And for good reason! But you know what has an even better reason for pushing forward? Every part of you that ever sought to be heard, to lead a meaningful life, and to realize the kind of fulfillment only the most worthwhile, intentional risks can bring. If you can just manage to shift back into that perspective every now and then, you have to admit that self doubt really doesn’t have a place in all this, nor does it stand a chance.

So yes, it can feel damn near impossible to get started. But that’s not because there’s something wrong with you. In fact, it’s because there are several things right with you. It’s probably an indication that you’re ready to take the kinds of risks that make that little man in the hard hat who likes to stomp around planting safety cones in your head go weak at the knees. It’s also an indication that you care about what you’re about to do, and, what’s more, that you have the sensitivity and sensibility to carry it out. For all these reasons and thousands more, this resistance is a sign that you’ve hit upon something vital that needs to be expressed, and that you are the person best suited to the job.

It’s been said that writing is a gift that sours in the hand. When it comes to the writing life, I’m not sure truer words have ever been spoken. Your writing wants out of you, but it’s going to spend a lot more time festering if you bear down on every unexplained difficulty it presents with shame and judgment. Instead, if you come to expect – nay, welcome, as a sign of a healthy mind and a worthy heart – the resistance you face when you come to the door that leads to so many unknowns, and you gently wait until your hand steadies on the knob instead of beating your head against it, you might be amazed at how quickly that fear can slip away. Because more often than not, opening the door is the hardest part. Once you’re in, you’ll only wonder how you managed to stay away for so long.  

Art: Georgia O’Keeffe, “Patio with Black Door”