PSA: Don't Be the Unhappy Writer Trying to Start a Revolution at a Writers' Conference
Time for tough love: if you can't take the heat, don't sign up for the critique.
Hey Real Writers,
I had another newsletter planned for this past weekend but a recent trip to a writers’ conference—as faculty, not an attendee—hijacked that because of how that conference went down. I’ll share that newsletter this weekend.
Today I’m here with a public service announcement, or maybe a cautionary tale, and some words of advice.
I’ve been teaching at conferences for more than ten years. And I’ve organized and managed them, so I also know how much work they are and how much effort goes into making it the best possible experience for writers.
At this particular conference, things started off well. Everyone was excited and a bit nervous. People had begun to connect and relax a bit in the way writers do for workshops—where you know you’ll need to bare your writing soul to strangers as part of the process in order to reap the rewards and make progress. The same effort is required from the faculty—it’s a two-way street.
It was a good group and I was hopeful.
In that first session, the conference leader and faculty introduced ourselves and explained what would happen over the five days.
We also highlighted things to keep in mind:
Unless a writer says otherwise, we assume they want traditional publication through a large publishing house, or maybe a small press.
Our feedback is not personal (it’s not—how could it be? A) we’re professionals, and B) we don’t know them. And we’re also not horrible people.
We will adapt to what they want—advise them based on their evolving needs during the five days of the conference. Maybe they decide to self publish. Maybe they decide they want to pitch/work on a different book. Cool—we’re in!
We want them to succeed as many attendees have before them. Because we do!
We’re not getting rich off this gig. We do it to support writers and get great stories told well out there. It’s exciting to be part of writers’ evolution and contribute to their empowerment and development.
We are nice people who care. (Yes, we do exist.) I wouldn’t be part of a conference if that wasn’t true.
We’ve learned the next thing is also necessary to tell them.
Every single fucking year we warn the group that someone will not be able to take the feedback and will get mad and leave, and/or try to start a mutiny to take other people with them.
We ask them not to be that person. To speak to a faculty member individually or the conference leader so we can find out what the issue is and provide support.
Everyone laughs and thinks it’s funny.
And then every single fucking year it happens.
Someone gets mad things are not going as they expected. Perhaps they are not being praised as a genius, or they’re told they need to make changes to a manuscript they’ve worked ten years on so they don’t want to, or they take something that was said personally (see above).
They start with arguing and debating every suggestion and comment made by faculty on their work and during other people’s turns, proceed to badmouth everything and everyone outside of the sessions, make dramatic threats/announcements about leaving, sometimes try to talk other attendees into leaving with them, and then they or the little group they convinced to join them depart either in a cloud of vitriol or without word. They don’t answer emails and texts because they’ve disappeared and we’re worried about them since we all worked with this person or people at various points. (I’m human; you’re human. You disappear on my watch, I’m worried.)
It’s predictable, pointless, exhausting, disappointing, and disrespectful to the other writers and to the faculty.
I’ve had teenage editing clients who took feedback with more grace and maturity
I understand that someone who may have had to wait until they retired to write the book they’ve dreamed of or spent five years getting up at 4 a.m. to write to have that time before their kids got up, or who is telling a painful, personal story, would be bummed that their idea won’t fly in its current state in the bigger publisher marketplace. We are trying to be direct but kind and encouraging, knowing there’s a whole story behind a writer’s story and that it’s very important to them.
But it’s a writing practice. Writing doesn’t mean what a writer produces will knock it out of the park. You don’t sit down at a piano for the first time and play well, let alone play Carnegie Hall. Nor do you criticize your music teacher, contradict every aspect of the lesson, and storm off.
To act out and affect fellow writers’ experience of the conference, instead of changing tack to find out how to revise the story for the marketplace or how to make what the writer has the best it can be through working with the professionals they have access to at that conference, or decide to self publish, or go for small presses is a waste of everyone’s time.
The response isn’t “fuck you, I’m out of here!” The response is, “what do you recommend I do and what guidance/support/resources can you give me so I can make the right decision for me?”
This mutiny happens at much larger conferences all the time.
Not everyone will be able to handle the experience and process feedback. And it’s not possible to make everyone happy. But because there are hundreds or thousands of people at the bigger conferences, it’s not noticeable.
Does anyone stand on a table and pull a Jerry Maguire, “Who’s with me?!” at Bread Loaf or Sewanee or AWP? No, they don’t.
But when it’s a small conference of 12-15 people so everyone can receive five days of focused personalized feedback about their ideas, pitches, first pages, brand/marketing, and path forward from editors and agents, one bad apple with a bruised ego can easily spoil the others, either because the bad apple got into other people’s heads, or they need to make the biggest explosion possible to prove to themselves they’re right.
Guess what happens down the road? They regret it.
Many write later apologizing and say the advice was right, they took it after all, they’ve published the book, and couldn’t have done it without the help they received at the conference. Some don’t and that’s fine.
Here’s my advice, Real Writers, to spare you and other writers the drama:
If you have a thin skin, you have no business going to a writers’ conference.
To build up your resilience:
Join a critique group.
Participate in some Twitter pitch competitions.
Take an online class where you can be somewhat anonymous.
If a critique group is too much, ask one fellow writer you know to give you feedback.
Work with an editor. If you can’t afford a full manuscript edit, ask them for and edit of your first chapter, or the first 50 or 100 pages, then have a phone conversation with them to discuss their edits/comments if virtual is too much.
If you’re at a conference and someone starts behaving badly—CALL THEM OUT.
Don’t let someone else rob you of what could be a game-changing experience.
If a writer can’t handle the truth, how will they write the best book possible in order to get published in the first place, or handle reviews by critics or readers?
If a writer lets their emotions and fears get the best of them, then they are the only one holding them back.
The only time the issue is about the writer is when they refuse to learn.
Don’t be that writer.
Chris