The Introspective Writer

There are lots and lots of writing “help” websites out there. Some have useful advice and others are just discussions made by those of us lost in the fast-changing world of publishing. Blind leading the blind.

One of my social networks hosts a group for writers that I joined some time ago. Like most social networks I have very little time actually to spend on the site—I wouldn’t get any writing done if I put time into website browsing. Nevertheless, when a topic of importance comes up I read a little.

The other day a contributor asked my perennial question: how do you know if your writing is good? Those of us who are introspective ask that constantly. We know the inherent paradox—we like our own writing, but we’re not objective readers, are we?

Like most writers I write something and love it. Then I hate it. Then I’m not sure. Some of the responses to this post reflected that. Most wanted to give advice, and frankly, unless you’re a famous writer what can you say?

What bothered me the most was a post from a reader—a man—who said something along the lines of “if you doubt your own work you’re not a writer.” I despise this kind of military answer to what is a peaceful enterprise. I don’t have that much testosterone.

Introspective people think about writing from many different angles. I’m often not sure if what I’ve written is funny, scary, or moving. I know it is to me, but will others see it that way?

For Banned Book Week I read Lady Chatterley’s Lover by D. H. Lawrence. It is now considered a classic. The writing isn’t what I expected for a classic, craft-wise. The sex scenes are infamous, but not strongly appealing. I’m sure Lawrence thought they were.

The writer is her or his own worst critic and reader. We approach writing introspectively, wondering if others see what we see. There’s no way to answer my social network writer’s question. It’s part of the complexity we call writing.

Comments

Dusty

My, this thing is dusty. My fans—hi, Mom!—perhaps believe me to have perished in the pandemic. No, it was nonfiction’s fault. Since the pandemic began I’ve had two nonfiction books published and have written a third. With a nine-to-five job something’s got to give. Unfortunately it’s been fiction. Well, the groundhog didn’t see his shadow yesterday, so it must be safe to come out. I shuffled away the rejection notes and began submitting again. I’ve got a backlog of weird stories and maybe some new publishers have emerged? The thing is, don’t you just hate it when you’re in the mood to submit and some lit journal has its window for submissions firmly shut? My last story, “ The Hput, ” was published about three years ago. Oh, I’ve submitted since then, but with no traction. Well, it is winter. I’ve got a lot of stories lined up. I’ve been sending them out again, dreaming of making a dime at what I love doing best. When you’ve been writing for half a century, you l

Neglectful Parents

If I was a parent I’d be accused of neglect. I have to say 2017 was the least published year of recent memory. Not that I’ve been neglecting my fiction, but I had a non-fiction book accepted and I work full-time and commute to that job—you get the picture. I’ve also had a personal epiphany. If you can write, you should get paid for it. I know a publicist (not my own; I don’t have one) and she says she won’t let her authors even write an op-ed if they don’t get paid. I guess I’d never get published then. My Medusa novel had a flicker of hope for a few moments. A publisher actually wrote back asking for the rest of the manuscript. That’s never happened before. Then the editor disappeared. Even called me by the wrong pseudonym. I’ve gotta wonder about that because the second half of the novel’s even better than the first. While looking for an agent for my non-fiction (couldn’t find one of those either) I came across several who said they liked quirky ficti

Too Much Writing?

Has this ever happened to you? Have you written a story that you’ve completely forgot? Not only completely forgotten, but made unfindable? I play games with my stories and sometimes the joke’s on me. Okay, I suffer from graphomania. I write constantly. I do try to keep organized—I use a spreadsheet that has all my submissions on it. It has rejection/acceptance dates (mostly rejection). Lots of information. I decided to list on it every story, whether finished or in process. There are far too many (mostly in process). When I finish a story I often submit it. If I get burned, I’m shy about resubmitting. I often rewrite at this stage. Then, when I feel brave enough, I try again. The spreadsheet is color-coded. There, in the color that indicates finished and ready to submit is a story cryptically titled “The Password.” I don’t remember this story. I can’t recall what it was about or why I thought it was ready to publish. Looking through my electronic files,

K. Marvin Bruce

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