Eric Del Carlo returns to Asimov’s with “The Wages of Saints” in our [September/October issue]. In this blog post, he discusses his definition of a writer and what it takes to try to be one.
By Eric Del Carlo
Let’s get this upfront harshness out of the way first, shall we? Then maybe we can have some fun.
I’ll apologize—a little insincerely—for the Harlan Ellison-esque title of this piece. Harlan was a giant; Harlan had clout; Harlan could back up just about anything he said, no matter how critical or incendiary, because of the vast body of brilliant writing he produced. If you win that many Nebulas and Hugos, you get to run your mouth, especially if you’re speaking uncomfortable and confrontational truths.
I do not have that stature. I am also not a force of nature (most days) if you meet me in the flesh. Often, I give off so little life force that I end up inadvertently sneaking up on people and startling the hell out of them. I’m fairly certain I could commit a murder in a crowded elevator and no one would know I’d done it. No, I haven’t tested this theory, nor do I intend to.
But I will make a statement here.
No one is a writer simply because they say they are.
(I love that it’s now grammatically permissible to say “they” instead of the old awkward “he or she,” since the “no one” in that sentence insists that what follows must remain singular. Poetry in motion. Language in motion, too.)
There is a sentiment prevailing that if you proclaim yourself a writer, well, then, you are one. That’s all it takes. You might be posting fanfic online. You might be scribbling feverish notes on a nine-book fantasy cycle, the first actual sentence of which you’ve not yet committed to paper. You might just be staring off into space with a beatific smile on your face, and murmuring à la the supercomputer in John Brunner’s superb Stand on Zanzibar, “Christ, what an imagination I’ve got.”
There is, of course, no evil inherent in any of these activities. Words are exciting. Fiction literally seizes the imagination. It can be good, and useful, to get worked up into a frenzy about writing—about wanting to do it yourself, about wishing to be a creator. That enthusiasm can be a glorious motivator. It’ll keep you awake at night. It can fill you with a fizzy adolescent energy, no matter what your age. But it doesn’t give anyone license to look the world in the eye and say: “I. Am. A. Writer.”
NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! (To be heard as Queen’s strident harmony vocals, just before Freddie comes in with “O mama mia, mama mia!”)
But the trending social media winds give that permission. It seems to be a kind of feel-good encouragement. Again, nothing inherently wicked in that; but it opens the door to a misguided view one might take of oneself.
I didn’t sell any piece of writing until I was twenty-three. And this was after years of slogging, of pumping out pretty awful stories, consumed by a vision I had of creating meaningful work but unable—as yet—to assemble anything which functioned well enough to make a sale. Until I did. A short story about a precog called “Up Around the Bend,” cribbing the title of a Creedence Clearwater Revival song, sold to a small press magazine. It was my first major watershed. I can still summon those kinetic feelings of pride and excitement which I experienced on that occasion. I had set out to do something, put in the time, effort and heartbreak, and here was my reward. I was no longer unpublished.
But. . . was I a writer now?
Well, I’d been literarily de-virginalized, and that would never be undone.
But was I a writer?
Honestly, and a little bitterly, no, I wasn’t that. I was someone who’d had a sale, which, granted, moved me into a whole new bracket. There is a yawning chasm between trying and failing to sell your work, and then receiving that first acceptance letter and your first check. (I made a photostat of mine; still have it.) There is also quite the wide gap between one’s first sale and one’s second. You repeat the experiment. You establish the possibility of a trend, and negate the perhaps nagging thought that you just got lucky, just that once.
But being a writer is not a state of mind. You have to show your receipts.
You may have encountered the person who claims they are a writer. This individual might be in your social circle. When they are introducing themselves or when the subject of what-do-you-do? comes up, they can be counted on to say: “I am a writer.” A breathy little proclamation, enunciated with a prideful solemnity, and with the expectation that this will place them in a rarefied category of human being. The simple question of “What have you published?” may not deflate them in any way. They are imbued. They need only announce their state. This, of course, goes for people who aver they are painters, poets, musicians, et cetera, without doing even the basic work of getting started.
If you don’t write, you are not a writer. If you do write, you are someone who is trying to write. If you sell what you write now and again, you are someone who writes. If you make your living off of what you write, you are a writer.
I’m not a writer. I can comfortably state to any and all that I have seen a great deal of my fiction published. I can declare, because I can back it up, that my science fiction has appeared multiple times in Asimov’s, Analog, and Clarkesworld. I can—and do—say that with a ringing pride, as it is no small accomplishment. But my success doesn’t cover the rent or the bills. If it did, I would cheerfully lip off to anybody with: “Yeah, I’m a writer.” “No, what do you really do?” “Seriously, dude. I am a writer.”
But I am not there. If I want to say I am not there yet, I have to accept that this is a wee bit of self-aggrandization, because the next big yawning chasm facing me is that leap from has-sold-a-lot-to-pro-magazines to I-make-my-living-doing-this. No guarantee that will happen. And I won’t make any false claims in advance of that. I make a conscious effort not to lie to myself. And I don’t want to disrespect others by making unwarranted claims.
All this might sound pretentious. Or just, perhaps, schmucky. But I do love words, and words have to mean something. “Writer” must have a meaning, especially if it’s going to be weaponized.
None of this, however, is meant to discourage anyone—anyone at all—from trying to write. The struggle to get good at anything is rewarding. You’ll at the least learn something about yourself.
If words stimulate you, if stories get your soul churning, then by all means dive right in. Stories require almost nothing in the way of physical materials. You don’t have to buy paints and canvases, don’t have to fork out for that first guitar. You just type words. Or jot them onto paper. If it’s science fiction that arouses your creative impulses, there is a handy infinitude of ideas out there. Read. Read who you like. Every story you consume will make you stronger. Are you awestruck by a particular short story or novel? Great. Ask yourself why. What is it in that mix of prose and concepts which reaches you? It’s not impossible to figure out, and it is a good early step to take. Don’t be afraid to imitate. It’s not the same as ripping off. Another writer’s work can inspire you. Do you have a take on the same material? Maybe there’s a particular little glint in their story which peaked your imagination. Perhaps pivot off that, explore something the other writer left unilluminated.
Another vast advantage to writing over other arts is that the submission system is very easy. You don’t have to know anybody. Don’t have a sneak a demo tape over the transom. Don’t have to schmooze a gallery owner or, really, prostrate yourself in any way. You look at market listings. Many magazines take unsolicited submissions. That means you can just put your manuscript into the proper format and bang it off into the ether. You don’t have to sweat an audition in some airless room or suffer through a nerve-racking interview. Submitting a short story is as anonymous and low-impact as it gets in any art field. Yes, you run the “risk” of receiving a form rejection (a “Thank you for…Unfortunately…”), but that is a rather gentle letdown when you think about it.
You will probably see more than a few rejections. Is your desire to write greater than the heartache of failure? It’s going to need to be. But there is an early milestone to watch for: the personal rejection. This is when an editor specifically remarks on your story even as they are saying no thanks to publishing it. Editors don’t generally give away comments willy-nilly. If you get a note like this, it is an encouragement. It marks your first real progress. Don’t discount it.
A thing to avoid, however, are communities, large or small, which reinforce negativity. These are, perhaps, writing groups where the first order of business is complaining about writing. What a grind it is. How you always find excuses to do chores instead of sitting down at the keys. How every first draft is utter slop and you face an uphill battle trying to harvest anything worthy out of it. The wrong group will reward you for moaning and groaning along these same lines. You will earn a sense of belonging. But you will be absorbing bad lessons. Yes, writing takes work; work isn’t always fun; but why add this communal drag to it? If you want to improve your writing, find others who feel the same way. Or go it alone.
After all, have these negative people sold anything they’ve written?
Be better than that. If you keep writing, you will inevitably get better at it. You might never reach that threshold which is your first sale, but if you look with an honest eye, you will see that you have grown.
You can truly say you are trying. And that counts for something.
