A notion exists that editors can’t be writers. Why, though, can’t editors be writers? Some people try to explain the impossibility by stating that editing other people’s work all day results in a weariness that precludes the writer from writing. It’s a valid point, but it’s worth pondering whether a person who writes professional copy or repairs automobiles all day can go home and write poetry or fiction. Can that person? Usually, people say yes. Why, then, can’t the same be said of editors?
Writing Life
What to Do When the Well Runs Dry
The curse of the blank page is an actual phenomenon. You, the writer, come to the page, and nothing pours forth from your head or hands. You stare at the blinking cursor, and it stares back at you. You feel yourself diminish underneath the weight of its gaze. Your ideas, already a trickle, stop altogether. Your well runs dry. You wonder if the source of water has been depleted entirely or if it’s time to move onto a new well. You wonder a lot of things when faced with the blank page and the blinking cursor.
How to Judge Criticism
Criticism can be given for multiple reasons, but it generally can be divided into two camps of thought. The first is criticism that is for the writer’s benefit; that is, criticism that takes a person’s work to the next level and pushes him or her to reach that level. The second is to be dismissed, and it is to be dismissed immediately. It is the sort of criticism that is done for the sake of “poking holes.” It has no grace to it. It has no aim other than belittlement and a desire to prove who is better than whom.
Embrace Messiness
When I was a kid, my mom gave me motherly wisdom as most mothers do: “To have friends you have to be friendly; if you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all; you have to get messy to make art.” All true statements and all not readily absorbed, especially the first and third ones. To the first, I was a shy kid who struggled to make friends, and, to the second, I hated to get messy. I loved art, but I hated to get paint or glue all over my hands. Perhaps I already was exhibiting an inclination toward perfectionism.
Where’s Your Confidence?
When I paint woodland animals or dinosaurs or trees or oceans, I have to trust that the brushstrokes will result in something akin to those four things. I can’t tell when I’m painting; I’m too close to the wall. All I see is colors blending together. It’s only when I step away from the wall and have some distance that I can see correctly. I see that I have, in fact, painted a sheep or a fox or a deer. The tree is convincing. The crashing waves actually look like crashing waves.
Writing through the Ugly Middle
A few weeks ago, I read a post about writing through the ugly middle. When a writer is in the midst of writing a draft, he or she can’t stop. The writer has to reach the end, even if the end is ugly or is a return to the beginning. The writer has to follow where the middle goes.