Amanda Baker's Blog - Posts Tagged "writing-advice"
When should you give up?
I first knew I wanted to be a writer when I was 6. With several diversions en route – a failed marriage – 3 beautiful children – a brief political career (local) even briefer legal career - I returned to my heart’s desire officially at the turn of the century.
Naive beyond belief about what the world of professional writing and the brutal horrors of publishing, I launched in.
Like many hopefuls I endured the rejections – the half responses. My top rejects included a full two page A4 closely typed letter from an agent who went to great lengths and considerable time to explain to me how she was far too busy to read my very short submission.
I had one ‘acceptance’ fulsome, glowing – the only problem was it was from a publisher who was writing to someone else. Not a black woman writing the sort of adult pithy stuff I’d submitted but someone submitting a lovely twee novel set in the 1950s - all chintz, whiteness and rose tinted specs. She showed no remorse. IN fact she was so spiteful in her response I did wonder if it was a deliberate ‘mistake’.
At one point I had a prestigious agent in New York – which sounds grand but for the year I was contracted to them for two novels – I was treated so appallingly I nearly gave up writing.
Like a lot of writers who don’t fall into the category of knowing folk in the publishing industry – or being a celebrity or have royal connections or released a sex tape so already famous on social media yada yada yada – I eventually – apart from my short stories and poems published by small publishers – went down the route of indy-publishing. It’s no party. And the main issue – is that you have zero muscle behind you.
In mainstream publishing you will often notice a glowing review on the cover of a book and find that the book does not live up to any of the expectations and yet you know the lead name and they seem to know what they are talking about. Check which publisher THEY are with by and you will often find they come from the same stable as the author they are praising. Draw your own conclusions.
You don’t have the resources.
You don’t have the contacts.
You do learn to be a brutal self-critic – you learn to slap yourself around a bit. Then you plough on.
I ploughed on, buoyed occasionally by some small success despite the odds. A shortlist in the Bridport International Poetry Prize (the Oscars of the poetry world) a nice review of one of the children’s adventure books from Readers Digest. Some surprise sales - usually after a gig (in the 2009 – pre pandemic – I did a lot of performance poetry/spoken word events and even stand-up comedy. For some reason I’ve yet to fathom – if folk like what they see on stage they BUY YOUR BOOKS even if there is no connection.
Anyhow – covid put an end to all that and the world has moved on even further so that if you do not exist in the nightmare of social media (which I do not) you may as well not exist anywhere. And that brings me to the point of today’s blog.
My eldest grandson is now just 6 months younger than I was when I decided I would be a writer. And – yes – I am that thing. I am a writer. I write. But writing is not a solo activity. If a tree falls in the woods etc etc – Well – if a writer cannot yell loud enough above the hubbub to reach readers – tis the same thing.
How do you know when it’s time to give up?
Naive beyond belief about what the world of professional writing and the brutal horrors of publishing, I launched in.
Like many hopefuls I endured the rejections – the half responses. My top rejects included a full two page A4 closely typed letter from an agent who went to great lengths and considerable time to explain to me how she was far too busy to read my very short submission.
I had one ‘acceptance’ fulsome, glowing – the only problem was it was from a publisher who was writing to someone else. Not a black woman writing the sort of adult pithy stuff I’d submitted but someone submitting a lovely twee novel set in the 1950s - all chintz, whiteness and rose tinted specs. She showed no remorse. IN fact she was so spiteful in her response I did wonder if it was a deliberate ‘mistake’.
At one point I had a prestigious agent in New York – which sounds grand but for the year I was contracted to them for two novels – I was treated so appallingly I nearly gave up writing.
Like a lot of writers who don’t fall into the category of knowing folk in the publishing industry – or being a celebrity or have royal connections or released a sex tape so already famous on social media yada yada yada – I eventually – apart from my short stories and poems published by small publishers – went down the route of indy-publishing. It’s no party. And the main issue – is that you have zero muscle behind you.
In mainstream publishing you will often notice a glowing review on the cover of a book and find that the book does not live up to any of the expectations and yet you know the lead name and they seem to know what they are talking about. Check which publisher THEY are with by and you will often find they come from the same stable as the author they are praising. Draw your own conclusions.
You don’t have the resources.
You don’t have the contacts.
You do learn to be a brutal self-critic – you learn to slap yourself around a bit. Then you plough on.
I ploughed on, buoyed occasionally by some small success despite the odds. A shortlist in the Bridport International Poetry Prize (the Oscars of the poetry world) a nice review of one of the children’s adventure books from Readers Digest. Some surprise sales - usually after a gig (in the 2009 – pre pandemic – I did a lot of performance poetry/spoken word events and even stand-up comedy. For some reason I’ve yet to fathom – if folk like what they see on stage they BUY YOUR BOOKS even if there is no connection.
Anyhow – covid put an end to all that and the world has moved on even further so that if you do not exist in the nightmare of social media (which I do not) you may as well not exist anywhere. And that brings me to the point of today’s blog.
My eldest grandson is now just 6 months younger than I was when I decided I would be a writer. And – yes – I am that thing. I am a writer. I write. But writing is not a solo activity. If a tree falls in the woods etc etc – Well – if a writer cannot yell loud enough above the hubbub to reach readers – tis the same thing.
How do you know when it’s time to give up?
