Playing on Trust
By Dave King | March 20, 2018 |
The Lutheran church where I’m organist uses an electronic instrument in a choir loft above the sanctuary. The organ’s three huge speaker banks are hung off the loft rail so they project out over the congregation. Which is fine, except that when the congregation is going all out (Lutherans tend to be full-throated singers), I can’t hear myself play. Essentially, I’m playing on trust.
I thought about this as I read the comments on some of the Editor’s Clinic pieces. So many readers would like to change the focus of the narrative — to cut a bit of character-building interior monologue in order to speed up the action, or to pause the action to explore a relationship that may or may not be important later. This raises the question: how do you know how your writing comes across to your readership? How do you tell when you’re feeding them so much information you’re boring them, or so little that you’re leaving them confused? Do your readers see your characters as the same people you do? Have your surprises come as a surprise, or were your readers just waiting for you to spring your reveal and move on? How do you know?
Well, you can’t, not really. Remember, your readership isn’t a monolithic block who will all feel the same way about your story. If you, say, leave out some of the more obvious steps in your detective’s thinking, some readers will appreciate the way you assume they can follow along, while others will simply be lost and resentful. If you spend time developing a personal relationship that helps showcase your main character, some readers are going to appreciate knowing your protagonist better while others are going to be impatient for the story to keep moving.
This inability to please everyone is one reason why it’s so hard to break into print and to build a readership after you do. Readers tend to buy books by writers they know are a good fit for them. When you’re a new voice, some more adventurous readers are going to give you a try, and you’re bound to lose some of them just to differences in taste. So building your readership means, in part, winnowing out readers who simply don’t enjoy the kind of book you write until you’re left with a readership who knows what you can do and likes watching you do it.
Incidentally, this is why it’s often easier to break into print in genre. When your book carries a clear label like “romance” or “fantasy,” your potential readers can trust that you’ll be following conventions they’re familiar with. They already know, just from where you’re shelved in the bookstore, that they will like some elements of your story.
So given that you can’t reach everyone, what can you do to reach as many as possible? The first step is to write as well, technically, as you can. Some of the choices you’ll make as a storyteller will always alienate some readers, but there are some stylistic mistakes that will drive everybody away. So whatever your story might be, make sure you’re proficient enough that you’re not losing readers because of problems that have nothing to do with your story.
Note, some writers deliver so strongly on other storytelling elements that readers are willing to forgive their stylistic sins. Dan Brown weaves thriller plots so expertly paced that his shallow characterizations don’t matter as much. Stephenie Meyer captures the bad-boy boyfriend so well that readers are willing to overlook the clunky dialogue and description.
Once you’ve got the mechanics down, the next step is to make sure that what you want to convey is actually getting across. This is what beta readers and professional editors are for. But you have to be careful with the feedback you get from outside sources. Some of it may be enlightening – all writers have some blind spots about their writing. But some suggestions will come out of differences in taste. (The same applies to Amazon reviews. If you don’t believe me, read the one-star reviews on The Great Gatsby.) If you try to listen to all your critics, you can tie yourself in knots that may make you give up on your novel entirely. This is why I always tell clients to only take the suggestions that inspire them, and to only start paying attention to reviews and critiques when they all start saying the same thing.
Which brings me back to the console in the choir loft. The way I manage to play when I can’t hear myself is to stop thinking about how I sound to the congregation – to forget the audio feedback entirely – and simply play for myself. I know how the hymn is supposed to sound, and I’m familiar enough with the instrument to know how to get the sounds I want out of it. So I focus on the keyboards in front of me and hear the hymn in my head as I play. Performance as an act of faith.
The best way to reach your readership is to forget they’re there. Keep your focus on the story you want to tell. And on the characters who inhabit it. I’ve recently had a couple of clients ask me about word choice in a particular passage, and my answer is always the same: “What would your viewpoint character say?” If you tell the story that you want to tell, follow the threads that interest you, immerse yourself in the literary moment rather than thinking about how it will sound to others, then you are most likely to write the sort of story that will reach the most readers.
Playing on trust is really the only way to do it.
Have thoughts to share? The floor is yours.
[coffee]
Dave King has been editing for nearly 40 years now. He is co-author of Self-Editing for Fiction Writers, a former contributing editor to Writer’s Digest, and has contributed more than 100 articles over the last 12 years to Writer Unboxed. He lives on 25 acres in rural Massachusetts with his business partner and wife, Ruth Julian, who also edits his work. His other day job, at least on Sundays, is as the organist at a Lutheran church in Greenfield, Mass.
This may be the most important post you’ve written. Write for yourself. Write what interests you. Strive for craft—that is, technical skill—but what will bring your story alive is you.
The great 20th Century British novelist Anthony Powell was also a book editor. He said, in every author’s work you’ve got to put up with something. Very true. You also get something that no one else can provide.
That message is especially important for genre authors to hear. The formulas and tropes of genre do make it easier to find an audience, but they can turn into rules and easy choices for plot and characters that limit readership. At my agency, I’ve long noticed that SFF writers, say, who write like no one else are the hardest to place but ultimately are the most successful. (They also have high craft.)
Literary and mainstream authors can also default to what is easy to write and which they imagine editors want to read. They can pull punches and write safe. That is the opposite of what makes storytelling great.
So what can I add? Maybe that you can trust in your story when your readers know you that they can trust you. That starts with two things: protagonists whom we know right away are good and a narrative voice that is confident; that is, which is not discovering the story as it’s told but is telling a tale that is already complete.
Love this post, Dave, thank you.
Well, thanks, Don.
And you’re absolutely right about the dangers of the conventions of genre turning into formulas or, worse, rules. Instead, they should free the writer for greater creativity. You’re ensured a readership. Show ’em what you can do.
Wonderful reminder, Dave. A while back Barbara O’Neal wrote about ideal readers and it helps to keep those in mind.
I’d missed Ms. O’Neal’s piece, but I just looked it over. It’s a good evocation of the fit between your writing and a certain class of reader. I think she summed it up well when she said that you’re ideal reader is you.
Many thanks for this post, Dave. We can’t please everyone–of course–but if we are true to ourselves as we write, there are sure to be enough “somebodies” out there who will appreciate our work and turn into devoted readers.
As a former church organist, with a modest organ in a smallish church, I quickly learned that congregations always drag the tempo, so the organist must not stay in time with the congregation (which results in dreary drag) but keep ahead of the beat by just a bit at all times. To cooperate with the congregation in a spirit of harmony but not be entirely subject to them. Could that possibly be a metaphor for our attitude to our readers?
Somebody has to set the beat, to lead. It should be the organist.
Someone has to push the readers. It must be the writer, because the readers cannot agree among themselves.
Unless there are no singers singing along.
I sing in the choir, and we know better than to fight the organist, even when it’s someone we’ve never worked with before who substitutes at the last minute with no time for rehearsal, and plays at half tempo or doubletime. The congregation may be flummoxed, but we can’t afford to be. We’re professionals (relatively).
I love your use of the metaphor.
I’ve been leading my congregation for so long that I’d forgotten how much they can drag. (Actually, I suspect Lutherans manage to keep the tempo a bit better than other congregations I’ve played for — there really is a centuries-old tradition of robust singing in the Lutheran church.) I always make sure to lift my hands clear of the keyboard at the end of a phrase, too, to cue the congregation when to take a breath.
But I think leading a readership is a something different. It can be done. In fact, a lot of powerful books first draw readers in, then take them someplace outside their comfort zone.
But that’s a matter for another article.
My husband was just complaining that the NYTBS author he’s reading was boring him with heavy-handed info-dumps. As I close in on a late revision with my editor’s notes in hand, I’m feeling grateful that the editor really got what I’m trying to do. I makes s all the difference to me (I’ve had the other kind of experience). And reading in my genre, taking note of the balance struck between necessary information and great storytelling has been enormously instructive. I’m not a church person, but I’d sure love to hear you play, Dave. I hear your passion for the instrument, the music, and the act of playing. I bet you have serious chops!
Sorry for the radio silence. I spent most of yesterday afternoon at a dentist’s appointment.
And it sounds like you’ve got a good relationship with your editor. When those relationships work, the results can be (pardon the buzzword) synergistic. A good editor will open your eyes to possibilities you haven’t seen.
As to my organist chops, they’re not as good as I’d like them to be. Given a few weeks’ practice, I can tackle moderately challenging pieces — in Bach terms, I can handle the Little Fugue in G minor or the Dorian. I’m working on the 9/8 now for Easter.
Dave, “Self-Editing for Fiction Writers” was one of the first, if not THE first craft book I dove into when I decided to tackle fiction writing. So cool that now I’m actually connecting with you online! Anyway, loved this post. Having attended a lot of critique groups, both online and in person, this really resonated with me:”This is why I always tell clients to only take the suggestions that inspire them, and to only start paying attention to reviews and critiques when they all start saying the same thing.” Wise writerly words.
Critique groups can be daunting. As I say, I even find the differences in comments on an Editor’s Clinic piece instructive.
I’ve said it before, but quite a few writers approach critiquing as a matter of helping you to write like them. The editor’s art is to help you write like you.
And even here, I’ve found that, in my best relationships with clients, the client takes about 70% of my suggestions. When they start doing everything I say by rote, then I get worried.
If you keep coming up with readers who don’t know you but leave glowing reviews which show that they got what you’ve been putting into the work, then you know for sure you can reach some readers. I keep being surprised (even though I specifically write for men as well as women) when these reviews come from older men. I’m writing a mainstream epic literary love story trilogy.
I have no idea how to grow that demographic, but I will figure it out.
Every good review should help — readers tend to trust what other readers tell them. If you can score a couple of blog reviews, that will help. And there’s always word of mouth.
If you’re hitting your readership, and writing at a consistent high quality, you will win them over.
Hi, Dave:
This post comes on the day that I turned in a revised version of an accepted manuscript from which I had unilaterally trimmed 50 pages (from 380 to 330) and 12.5k words. I did this because, despite my editor’s and agent’s enthusiasm and support, I had the nagging suspicion that the manuscript could be better. I was right. I think the leaner version is more focused, more powerful, more compelling. (“If I’d had more time, I would have made it shorter.”)
Some of the impetus to trim came from rejections we received. Some came from a reading I gave, before which I omitted a whole section from the chapter I was reciting. (Amazing how reading out loud alerts you to over-writing.)
I say all this because I agree with your comments about paying attention to reviews and critiques (and rejections) when they say the same thing. Even though our rejections for this book were all over the map, one thread did suggest trimming wouldn’t hurt. I tend to over-write, a fault that lovely prose can’t correct.
But the other side of this is: Don’t get fooled by praise, even from your agent and your publisher. It’s your book, your work, your name. Rise to your own highest standards, even when others are telling you the work is fine. (Mine was called “a masterpiece.” Phooey.)
I always love your music analogies. BTW: Do you know the work of Morten Lauridsen? Whenever I need to find a sacred place within myself, his choral music leads me there.
Thanks!
I’m not familiar with Lauridsen, no, though when I get a chance, I’ll give him a try. I tend to find my sacred places in baroque Organ music, particularly the Germans. (In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, German/Netherlandish organs where the only ones with pedalboards large enough to support an independent pedal part.) I love polyphony. It lets you capture the complexity of layered emotions in a way that more straightforward music can’t.
And your experience with both your critiquers and your own instincts is exactly what I’m talking about. You’re also right about the dangers of praise.
Your story has to come from inside of you. Outside eyes can help you find it, but they shouldn’t be the source of it.
Dave, you are making my day. Many times I have pulled back in my story, then realized: IT’S NOT THE STORY I WANT TO TELL And also, it’s not the story I would want to read. This also happens when kind readers react and suggest major changes. I listen, sometimes make minor adjustments, but the core of the story is what I want to write and it is what will go on the page. I am taking a writing class right now and it’s always interesting when a fellow writer suggests that the story go THIS WAY. When I critique, I try to stick to what’s there, find the things that are working. At least for me. Music, art. Once the melody is determined, it would be hard to back away. Once the framework of the piece is on canvas, you either proceed or get a new canvass. The journey of art can be complicated, but you have provided a great rule.
I like the painting metaphor. It does capture the need to resist the temptation to suggest fundamental changes to a piece you’re critiquing.
Dave, this line alone is worth the world to me, “The best way to reach your readership is to forget they’re there. Keep your focus on the story you want to tell.” This just might be the most important element to writing a good book.
As authors, we need to feel it, immerse ourselves in the story, the characters, and believe what we have to offer is of value. But most of all, we have to do it for ourselves.
My best advise to newbie writers is always the same, “Write for you, because you love it, because there is no other way you’d rather spend your time. Life is too short for anything less.”
Great post, Dave, much appreciated.
Dee Willson
Author of A Keeper’s Truth and GOT (Gift of Travel)
The need to focus on your story is fundamental, but it’s remarkable how easy it is to forget it. I mentioned the client who wanted to know which word choice was appropriate. She had forgotten that word choices in your descriptions belong to your viewpoint character — they’re the ones picking which word to use.
Hi Dave,
I recently read your self-editing book, so I was excited to see an article from you here. It came at a great time for me – I’m in the process of revising my manuscript after getting some beta reader feedback. I’ve noticed something interesting: they identified a lot of the same problems (e.g., it doesn’t feel like it gets going until chapter three) but had wildly different solutions for how to fix them. I know whatever I come up with will make someone unhappy, so I’ll just have to take your advice and trust my own sense of how to tell my story. Thanks!
The range of possible solutions you got isn’t surprising. It’s a lot easier to spot a problem than to find a solution that fits with the author’s vision. I generally encourage clients to go beyond my suggestions — or ditch them entirely and find their own solution — if they’re inspired to do so.
The inspiration is critically important. That’s the sign that you’re writing the kind of book you want to write.
Thank you, Dave! This post has given me the kind of thrill/chill you get when you just think about new boots and FB & Zappos put an ad for the perfect ones in your face the next time you log in. I so needed this today.
I’m trading pages with another writer and her edits are so to this point. Trusting your self and your story. Many of the changes she’s offered reflect my green-ness as a writer, but sometimes questions come when the answers are just a scene away. I have to trust that the rest of the writing will bridge my reader to each ‘Aha’ moment. Making promises and keeping them, scene by scene.
This sounds like an interesting situation Deb. Is it possible that your critter isn’t seeing your revelation where she expects it to be? Maybe some problem with stretching out the suspense a little too far?
Or she could just not get it, of course.
And if I’m generating Zappos-level excitement, then my job here is done.
Dave, this is a well-timed post. I’ve recently gotten some feedback on the beginning of a novel that contrasts sharply with another reader’s opinion (and my own).
And I’ve participated in workshops on the first 500 words or 5 pages of a MS and kept wanting to tell critiquers, “Just wait a moment. Stick with me. I promise you I know where I’m going.” I’ve actually sworn off those types of workshops now as a result.
I honestly believe if you listen to too many people and try to please too many people you will not only end up with a story you hardly recognize and didn’t set out to tell in the first place, you will dull all of the sharp edges of your prose and your narrative style — those things that make your voice unique — and end up sounding like everyone else, telling a story that everyone’s heard before in a way that doesn’t surprise or delight them.
As an editor, I’ve worked with a number of writers who were so pulled in different directions by, “Well, this so-and-so told me I should do this, and that so-and-so insisted I had to do that,” that they lose the love for their story and their story gets away from them as they try to fulfill others’ expectations. (And I’m sure I have fallen into that role of yet another person with expectations in my editing, which is always a danger.)
I was recently working with a writer who has felt completely stymied and thought her problem was plotting when, as it turns out, her main problem was the crushing weight of others’ expectations. She knew what she wanted to do with her story, but others had told her to do something else. Not suggested possibilities but flat-out said “you NEED to XYZ.” After our first coaching phone call she sent me an email that included this line: “I can’t tell you how much more hopeful I feel this afternoon.” And it had everything to do with encouraging her to forget about “genre” or “audience” as she drafts and just write the book she wants to read.
This is exactly what I’m talking about. It’s sometimes a little tricky to judge how much to listen to a critique, since there’s a temptation to dismiss critiques because they bruise your ego. But I’ve often seen what you’re seeing — writers who are so flummoxed by people telling them what to do that they can’t see their own vision any more.
The risk is especially acute with first five pages critiques. For one thing, it’s hard to accurately judge the opening without knowing the whole story. In doing the Editor’s Clinic pieces, I’ve sometimes led writers astray because I didn’t know where their opening pages were leading. But your opening pages are easy to critique in a brief article or in front of a writer’s group, so they often get more attention than they deserve. I wrote an article about this a while ago.
You can read it here.
That last paragraph hits the home run. Otherwise, you’re trying to write/compose with five critics looking over one shoulder, six over the other, and one (at least) on top of your head. When you’re creating—it is creative writing—you don’t want editors in the room, especially your self-editor.
Dave, I can’t add a thing to your spot-on post, other than to give emphasis to what is for me its most important sentence: “I know how the hymn is supposed to sound, and I’m familiar enough with the instrument to know how to get the sounds I want out of it.” That’s it: know with a sense of rightness and certainty what your story/hymn is, and have solid command of the instrument/language.
Would it were NOT easier said than done.
As always, thank you very much.
You’re right, Barry, it’s easier said than done. As I read through the comments, I’m realizing there’s more to be said on the difference between rejecting a critter’s suggestions because they don’t fit your vision and rejecting a critter’s suggestions because they bruise your ego.
I suspect another article is going to come out of this.
> Performance as an act of faith.
Yeah. That.
I’m currently submitting a novel that’s the best thing I’ve written and wondering if I really should wait to hear back or if I should self publish or ignore it all and write something else. It’s about faith itself, faith in shit and faith in bad decisions and faith in the worse moments to still work out for the good because of the mere existence of things when — honestly — nothing should exist at all. The great joke and prank of existence.
It’s the act of making the thing at all that testified to the novel’s best themes. And I think that’s how it should be. Before that I wrote one about anonymity that was crap, but I was anonymous at the time.
The more i think about your post, the more I’m convinced that the act of making the thing is testament enough, come hell or high readership.
Man, that was poorly articulated because of late night snacks:
I basically just meant to say that the truth of the act of faith in making a work of art tends to end up being the theme of the artwork and vice versa.
“… to stop thinking about how I sound to the congregation –….”
yes, exactly! I think that statement just hit the nail on the head and summed up everything perfectly!