Elsewhere on the net, a talented new writer made a comment about
the damaging effects of another person's behavior. We can encounter destructive
relationships in every area of our lives, but when it comes to our creativity,
they can be particularly nasty.
Some people write in isolation. Either they aren't naturally
sociable or they find that critical feedback simply isn't helpful. Most of us,
however, create some type of support system at some stage of our careers. Often
it's early on, when we're struggling to learn the craft. We may find a
face-to-face group or an online workshop or other network of fellow novices.
The internet provides a wealth of opportunities to meet such people, as do
conventions. (When I was starting out, there was a wonderful workshop-by-mail
run by Kathleen Dalton-Woodbury; I'm still friends with some of the writers I
met by exchanging letters and written critiques.)
Most of the time, beginning writers are honestly trying to help
one another. We may make mistakes as we learn how to give useful critical
feedback or make idiotic suggestions about marketing, but the basic
relationship is one of good will and support. Success, however small the sale,
becomes an occasion for celebration. When one member improves, we all feel
encouraged.
Trust is a crucial element in such groups. We work hard to learn
to accept criticism, to not be defensive, to take time to think through the
comments. While this vulnerability makes us more teachable, it also leaves us
open to manipulation and abuse.
Sadly, sometimes the people we thought were our friends and
supporters, our colleagues and conspirators in the adventure of creating and
publishing stories, turn out to be our most insidious adversaries. Sometimes,
the alarm comes in the form of a sinking feeling, a sense that verges toward
futility, after a discussion with a particular person. Other times, we realize
that once again, we have been lured away from time in which we intended to
work. Often we have no idea how that happened. We want to think well of our
friends; we believe their words even when their actions speak differently.
The whole issue of jealousy and sabotage on the part of those we
have trusted with our creative process, those we have relied on to be both
honest and tender with us, is complex and troubling. I can't do justice to all
its aspect here. The first step toward healthier boundaries is realizing what
is happening and that we are not alone. It's happened to most of us.
I don't mean to say that people join writer's workshops with the
intention of eroding the self-confidence, not to mention the craft skills, of
the other members. I do mean that people are not always aware of their own
feelings and motivations. A person may truly believe he or she means nothing
but the best for another writer, all the while subtly and unconsciously
communicating something very different.
A writing friendship can begin as mutual support but not fare
well when one writer's career takes off and the other one's doesn't. We're not
supposed to feel jealous of another writer, especially a friend. But without
self-awareness, it's easy to slide into resentment. ("It's not fair that
he got published and I didn't when my story is just as good.")
Sometimes, resentment comes out in statements that undermine
trust in the other writer's judgment and work, pressure to go against one's
natural strengths, for example, to change genres, to aim for unreasonable
markets ("Why are you wasting your time writing sword and sorcery when you
should be writing steampunk?")
Occasionally, envy will prompt a writer to try to manage the
other's career, even to act as a sort of agent. Gossip is a common way of
venting frustration, damaging both reputations and trust. ("She only got
that story published because she slept with the editor.")
For me, it's important to find people I can trust, both within
the field and outside it. Sometimes I need a disinterested listener, one I know
will hold whatever I say in confidence, so I can work out what my guts are
telling me and how to deal with the situation. This helps me to recognize my
own "warning signs" and develop a vocabulary of responses. I also
need regular time with fellow writers, not only to chew over specific writing
problems but for general communication-of-enthusiasm and mutual cheering-on.
When I do this regularly, I am less apt to be drawn into those relationships
that are less healthy for me as a person and as a writer.
This essay (and more!) can be found in my collection: Ink Dance: Essays on the Writing Life.
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