Tag: I spill my messy guts

The Bright Side of Subjectivity

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For as long as I’ve been a writer, there’s a term I’ve struggled to grasp: subjectivity.

It always seems to be used negatively, paired with an apologetic shrug. “Sorry that person didn’t like your work. It’s just subjective, you know?”

But I didn’t know. I came from a educational and professional background where (besides, like, Bernie Madoff ) there was a right, and a wrong. A clear cut answer. A way to plug numbers into a formula and receive the correct answer. Subjectivity was a strange, dark cloud, hanging over everything I attempted. Why couldn’t I write something everyone would love? What was I doing wrong?

I thought, hmm. Maybe I should just become better! Then, I shall be able to vanquish subjectivity! But, even after spending a year studying craft books, working with freelance editors, and pushing myself, I still got negative feedback that was… subjective.

Someone suggested that I read one-star reviews of my favorite books. This technique, they suggested, would make me realize even this amazing authors got subjective, negative reviews of their books. Instead, because I am made of fiery passion and undying loyalty, I wanted to fight every deluded fool who couldn’t see the obvious talent of my favorites.

Meanwhile, I was also getting positive feedback. People liked my work, adored certain characters, laughed at my jokes. It didn’t matter to me. I was more concerned with fighting the big-bad subjectivity monster. Surely, there had to be some formula I could apply to make it go away, and have everyone equally love my work.

Spoiler: there’s no way to ever do that. I’m going to skip over the months I spent bashing my head against a wall, and instead tell you about what finally made me realize what subjectivity truly is.

What happened was… I read a book.

Of course, I’d read plenty of books during my battles with the smoggy subjectivity monster, but this book I LOVED. It was one of those books that turned me into a book evangelist, pushing the book at everyone I knew. Shockingly, some of my friends didn’t like the book. Or they did, but they didn’t like the same things I did. I had no real reason for why I loved the book, aside from a fuzzy feeling of it hitting me in just the right brain spots, like the way a cold glass of water quenches more on a hot day. I couldn’t point to any narrative craft, any technique the author used to specifically make me adore the book. I just knew that my world was a better place with the book in it.

I loved the book, subjectively.

That’s the bright side of the mysterious subjectivity-monster we forget sometimes. The same inexplicable force that causes some people to dislike our works (or not love it enough to accept it) also allows people to adore  our work. Subjectivity fuels book deals, creates fanart, causes readers to squee in 5 star reviews. So the next time you get mad at that subjective rejection, remember there’s someone out there who will subjectively love your work.

Don’t give up, darlings!

I’m Sorry I Didn’t Read Your Book

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Hi Writer-Friend,

It’s been a while. You may not remember me. Or maybe you do, but you recall me with anger and hurt. Or perhaps, you too are a simmering kettle of apologies and regret, wishing things could be different.

I’m sorry I never sent you beta feedback. My life got hectic, and by the time I remembered to read yours, I was afraid of asking for more time.

I’m sorry for reaching out for blog post info, for an interview, for a possible critique partner relationship, only to disappear. My attention span flutters as much as a caffeinated butterfly, and my forgetfulness comes from that, not from a place of disrespect.

I’m sorry I disappeared from our friendship. I was battling anxiety/jealousy/insecurity, and knew I would only hurt you if we kept talking.

I’m sorry I never responded to your request for a blog tour. I barely blog as it is, and wasn’t sure how to tell you that. Would you think I was less of a writer if I told you I didn’t blog on a schedule?

I’m sorry I forgot your release date. My own life got hectic with family/school/work, and then when I checked Twitter, it seemed overwhelming, and I didn’t know how to help.

I’m sorry I never wrote a Goodreads review. I’m afraid that if I did one, all my friends would expect me to read their book.

I’m sorry that I review books on Amazon under a fake name to hide from their silly deletion policies, so you’ll never know I reviewed it.

I’m sorry we got into a huge argument, and now the expanse of the anonymous internet separates us, isolating us from ever finding a way of speaking to each other again. My apology hangs in empty air, like a dead link to a vanished site.

BUT

I’m not sorry for the hours I stayed up, reading your book. It was incredible, and I loved every page-turning moment.

I’m not sorry I keep my fingers crossed for your book to get published soon, and I talk about it to everyone I know.

I’m not sorry I retweet and reblog other’s release day posts for you, trying as hard as I can with my limited time, to show you that your words matter, that your book touched me.

I’m not sorry that I mention your artwork/editing services/skills to anyone in need of that, hoping to send you the customers you so very much deserve.

I’m not sorry I bought two copies of your book, one for me and one for a friend. I wait, ninja-style, for people to ask for book recommendations, so that I may push yours, like a dealer with the enthusiasm of a toddler.

I’m not sorry I still follow you on our social media sites, celebrating in secret for your successes, and mourning your losses. This tiny, dusty window into our former friendship is just enough for me to remember all the good times we had, and learn from the bad.

I’m not sorry we exist in this world together, and I’m so grateful that our paths crossed, no matter how short a time.

May all good things come to you, and may your future be filled with joy.

From the shadows and the silence, I am sincerely yours,

Carrie

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When the Magic Goes Away

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Scene: First day of second grade. Kids running around, showing off new backpacks, new shoes, same uniforms though. 

The teacher clears her throat and announces, “Let’s write a journal entry about what we did over summer vacation.”

Tiny-Carrie, with pigtails and an already messy desk, glances around at her classmates. They’re talking as they write. Disneyworld, Disneyworld, Disneyland, France, a cruise in the Caribbean (with Disney Characters.)

Tiny-Carrie’s summer had been fun, but, not like her classmates. She’d hung out with her Grandmas, learned to make cookies, played  make-believe in her backyard and loved every minute of it. Until her classmates started talking about the Disney princesses they’d met. A bit of fear crept into her brain, whispering that her summer had been stupid, that she was lame and a loser.

But, Carrie never liked being told what to do. Not by a teacher, and definitely not by some dumb, negative voice.

So, Carrie put pencil to paper, and began to write. She might not have traveled, but she had read. A book called THE BOGGART by Susan Cooper had launched an all-summer quest to learn everything about Loch Ness, its mythical monster and the magical-seeming land of Scotland. She’d even worked her way through “grownup” books explaining just how a monster might exist in the loch, and cookbooks about how to make “oatcakes.”

She wrote a story about going to Scotland, and all the things she’d experienced there. And as she wrote, it felt real to her. It felt just as fun, as exciting as her classmates “true” stories about Disneyland. Tiny-Carrie may not have traveled, but she had read. Now, in writing what she read, it was like real magic, making something out of thin air.

That’s what writing has always been to me. Over the years, I wrote my way out of countless bad feelings, out of fear about a surgery, or heartbreak over a person who didn’t like me back. My stories, although they were fictional and full of fantastic events, were woven with real truths, and real emotions.  Re-reading them is re-reading a diary, even if it’s set in a magical land, and the main character is a red-headed warrior-princess sneaking into royal balls, instead of an awkward fourteen-year-old Carrie dreaming about attending prom.

Nothing I write is autobiographical, but it’s all true to my heart. Be cause of that, perhaps, I’d been reluctant to share my words with others. These stories were part of my very DNA. I couldn’t let random people examine them for flaws any more then I could appear naked on a subway stop and shout “JUDGE MY BODY!”

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