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I have a problem with standards. I do peer editing at Literotica, and as an editor it's my job to point to a story's mistakes and say, "Hey, this could stand to be better." The problem is, some of the things I perceive as mistakes are... Well, they aren't. Particularly, things like spelling, grammar, punctuation, etc. "Now hold on a second," I hear you say. "But, CWatson, didn't you mention (in your rant on punctuation) that the rules of English exist for a reason? And yet here you're saying it's not a mistake to break them!" And to that I say, Yes, that's exactly what I'm saying. These are people who write at a level we all exceeded by the end of second grade, and, yes, it's a flaw... but it's not a mistake. The distinction is subtle, but important. Inevitably, when I bring this up to the hapless young writer in question (it's always a young writer—not necessarily one who has only a few years on him chronologically, but rather one who has only been writing for a few years chronologically), he always responds, "Okay, that's true, I don't pay much attention to crossing my I's and dotting my T's." (His message is likewise careless, reinforcing the point.) "But I'm not an Author, in the sense of, Oooh, you're an author, you write big ponderous stories about nothing. I'm just a storyteller. I care about communicating the tale and expressing myself, and the rest I ignore." And at that point I have to say, Okay, fine. Because, yeah, he misspelled more words in that e-mail than he got correctly. But guess what? If you aren't trying to spell correctly, it's rather inappropriate to ding you if you don't succeed. That's like complaining that Columbus never learned Hungarian while seeking the West Indies. The two have nothing to do with each other. If I blame him for not doing something he wasn't actually trying to do, something's wrong with me, not him. A mistake was not made. And yet I always find myself holding it against these young writers when they show such callous disregard for the rules of proper communication. Part of it is injured pride. I care about writing. I care about the art, and I definitely care about the craft. Recently I met someone who is a paid editor (for an international law magazine), and she expressed surprise that I would edit for free. I explained to her that I do it out of love. The more I can promote good writing and encourage young writers, the better off the world is—and, a little more pertinently for my life, the happier I am. Part of it is practicality. When you're a young writer releasing your first story, you're naturally insecure about it. How will people react? Did I fail miserably? Will people be repulsed? Will I succeed in exciting anyone? Will I be laughed out of the room / off the bulletin board / away from the site? How will I be received? Well, one of the ways to encourage a good reception is to cross your I's and dot your T's. As much as possible, you want to avoid turning away readers who might have enjoyed your story if not for the presence of [whatever niggling little detail gets their goat], and to some readers, bad technicals are that detail. So you do what's in your power to fix it: you run the spell-checker, you do editing passes, you clean it up. People who don't do that, clearly don't care very much about how people react to them. (And then they complain about our responses. "Yeah, but what about the story?" "I dunno, what about the story? I might have liked it, had it been physically possible to read.") And the last of it is cold professional disapproval. You'll never hear me say I've made it very far as a writer—I don't even have a novel published. But I've come far enough along that I can tell you one thing: you write 'cuz you wanna. Because you wanna, with a passion and drive that simply cannot be denied. If I don't write for a long enough time (about three months), I start literally jangling with the need to put words to page; it is a physical sensation. Every published author, every aspiring writer, every wordsmith who has gotten anywhere in this wild world of prose, feels the same. We have to write, because it would be easier to lose an arm than to stop. And that makes us care about the technicals. Here's the secret of perfectionism: it's actually passion, just under a different name. They're flip sides of the same coin. Without that drive, you don't care. Without caring, the drive means nothing. So you push, and you struggle, and you set yourself goals that you're not sure you can achieve, because you want to get better, you want to improve, it'll be a lot of work but you don't care—actually, you're looking forward to it. There is no such thing as work when it comes to writing, it's play, it's all play. So you set yourself challenges, and you push, and you learn, and you grow... And you get it right. Because you love it too much to get it wrong. That is the kind of drive you need to have before you can be a writer. And the reason you need it is because everything you ever meet in the world—your parents, your friends, your spouse, your job, your children, your hobbies, your social life, everything—will either be indifferent to your weird hobby or actively resisting it. They'll all say to you, "No, don't bother. Don't quit yer day job! It's a long and hard road, and most people fail." Which, truth for true, isn't far wrong. But that's exactly why you need that inner drive: because there is nothing, absolutely nothing in the world that will actually say "yes." At least, until you get any good. Like, until the point that you can string sentences together and not get confused as to where the Spell-Check button is. Obviously, that isn't all that far, but you'll have to get there on your own. Anyone who shows stories in public that haven't achieved that level of proficiency? Well, that's a mistake. They're not good, not good enough at least, and tue truth of the matter is that they don't care. If they did, they wouldn't be making the mistake. They think they're good enough. And the truth is, they're wrong. Not that they'd be willing to admit it. They want the approval now, the work later. They want their dessert before the main course. And you know what? That's just not how life works. We all hope that we're good writers, or can become them. Well, the truth is that there is a line between good writers and bad ones; the ones below that line just never improve, whereas for the ones above, the sky is the limit. The good news is, that line can be transcended; you can become a good writer. (Of course you can. None of us started out as good writers—not Hemingway, not Fitzgerald, not Austen or Shakespeare or any of the Brontes, not Stephen King or J. K. Rowling, not Volentrin or Ken Randall or be287m, and certainly not me—the 2nd-grade teacher who told me I had written a good story, and started me on this long road to authorship, was lying through her teeth, and we both knew it; it was a fifth-rate Top Gun knock-off with nothing to recommend it except that I had had the sense to rip off a successful movie. I only believed her because I was starved for praise throughout my childhood. But I digress.) You can become a good writer. But it's not guaranteed. The only way to do it is to work your ass off. The only way to do it is to care about it with every fiber of your being. The only way to do it is to wanna. And that's the line. Those who care enough to get it right... and those who don't. If you don't: forget it, go home right now, stop wasting your time. You need that internal passion. It's no shame not to have it; this road isn't for everyone. There are things you can do that I can't, like catch things that are thrown to you or drive stick-shift or have a job that pays more than ten bucks an hour. And if you do have that passion, then you are a good writer—not necessarily because your skills or talents are excellent right now, but because they can become excellent in the future. What makes you a good writer is the fact that are trying to get better. And you will. Because you care too much to get it wrong. |