Dennis Cass Wants You To Be More Awesome

Writer Tanya Whiton writes:

First, thank  you so much for your fascinating and helpful article in the Jan/Feb issue of Poets & Writers. If you have a moment, I’m wondering if you might expand a bit on the notion of the conceptual ladder? (A Google search took me to a site about the Kabbalah, which was interesting, but not quite what I was after.) Is the conceptual ladder the way in which an individual’s mind moves from concept to example and back again? Or is the conceptual ladder a series of concepts, ranging in complexity, each of which might act as a starting point? Or perhaps some combination of the two?

First, glad you liked the piece. I’m currently working on getting Poets & Writers to release it on the internet so more people can read it.

Second, before I clarify the concept of the conceptual ladder I need to do two things.

1. Introduce the following backpack:

2. Redefine art (from the point of view of the person creating it):

A piece of art represents the sum of EVERY creative decision rigorously applied

One of the ways we get blocked is that we make assumptions about our work that we don’t even realize we’re making. We unconsciously decide that a flea market backpack can only pay tribute to Barack Obama OR Harry Potter OR Sonic the Hedgehog.

Once we’ve made that decision (again, often without knowing we’ve made it) we wrestle with making our backpack great. We run our hand over many pleathers in order to figure out which one is the finest pleather. We fuss over color and dimension. We pay extra attention to every stitch and seam because our backpacked tribute has to be JUST RIGHT.

The problem is that we acted too soon. We self-imposed unnecessary limits on what we considered appropriate and/or effective backpack decoration. We failed to consider that maybe, just maybe, the best flea market backpack would pay tribute to Barack Obama AND Harry Potter AND Sonic the Hedgehog in a kaleidoscopic explosion of who’s the boss of all humankind. (Don’t listen to FAIL blog, who featured this item a few weeks ago. This is a WIN.)

So you could look at the conceptual ladder as a hierarchy of ideas that moves from simple to complex, from quiet to loud, from demure to outrageous, etc.

Or you could think of the idea as occupying a rung on some kind of imaginary idea ladder. How would the idea change if it occupied a higher rung? How would it change if it occupied a lower rung?

Or you could think of your own badass self as standing on the ladder. How does your view of the idea landscape change as you climb up and down?

Or you could come up with an entirely different metaphor (knobs, dials, sliders, DNA sequences) to belabor (as I have) at your leisure.

The point is to find some kind of tool/reminder to keep your idea-generating as fluid and elastic and expansive as you can. Then, start using that fluidity, elasticity and expansiveness early and often, because once a creative decision is made (unconsciously or not) you have to live it. Forever.

A reader writes:

I’ve been reading your blog for a while, but haven’t really gotten engaged for the simple (if depressing) reason that college leaves me little time for any creative projects of my own. That said, there’s always been one nagging (meta-)question that I am finally going to ask: why? Not to sound thankless (far from it), but why are you so adamant on helping complete strangers for what seems to be little to no personal gain? As someone who spends 8 months of the year around New Yorkers (and the other 4 around retirees), your seemingly sincere altruism is refreshing, but also somewhat baffling.

I have had this question in the hopper since February. Every week I take a stab at it and every week I set it aside.

In the past seven months several glib answers come to mind, answers like:

Giving is the new taking.

(Unfortunately, like so many glib answers, it’s not as original as I thought.)

This spring, while playing Resident Evil 4, I latched on to something Luis said to Leon when Leon tried to get to the bottom of Luis’s zombie-killing altruism:

“It makes me feel good. Let’s leave it at that.”

There’s also this wonderful line from Clay Shirky’s HERE COMES EVERYBODY when he quotes former Internet Society trustee Scott Bradner:

“The internet means you don’t have to convince anyone else that something is a good idea before you try it.”

The”why” lies in a mixture of all three.

Depending on the day I do this primarily because I believe in altruism for altruism’s sake, or because helping people feels good, or because I don’t have to explain to anyone (and in particular a bored and jaded New York magazine editor) why writing about paragraphs and pineapples is important.

In short:

I care about writers and good writing and would like to see more of both.

For now those are good enough reasons for me. I hope they’re good enough for you.

A reader writes:

I know how to look for agents. I’ve got books, website lists, blahty-blah. And I get the long road thing and the keep trying thing. Okay. But while there are a lot of agents in the world, the numbers aren’t infinite.  I mean, first I probably need to focus on American agents–seeing as I live in America and all.

Then I’ve got to focus further on my genre. Done.

Focus in more on agents that seem legit. Done.

Then on agents that are accepting queries. Done.

And so if this list isn’t as long as the road–in fact the road appears to be running off the map–then what? End of list…rejections received…now…?

Burn book and map? Get off the damn road?

Here are some uncomfortable statements about your writing career that may or may not be true:

• You may not sell your first book. Or your second. Or your third.
• You may sell your fourth book first, then publish your first book second and then turn pieces of your second into a short story and write an essay about why you’ll never publish your third.
• You may rewrite your first book a dozen times over a dozen years before you get it right.
• You may discover that your books don’t really work as books and become a playwright.

You’re asking me about the finiteness of agents, but I sense that the question behind your question is about the nature of the path you’re on. When is this going to happen for me? IS is going to happen for me?

I don’t know. But I do know this:

Getting published is a byproduct of doing the work.

Unless you’re a celebrity (in which case getting published is a byproduct of doing other work) then your day will come because you got the work right. Not necessarily great work (or even good work) but work that is right.

So chin up. Focus on the page.

I promise you won’t run out of agents.

A reader writes:

Longtime lurker, first-time writer. I was compelled to write based on a recent entry about how to start your writing career — I was intrigued by your advice, by the parameters you suggested for the hypothetical first project. I am a writer. I make my living as one (on staff, but not at a media company). I’ve long thought writing was a good fit for me, personality-wise. It afforded me the opportunity to explore and examine my varied interests. Over the past year or so, however, I’ve been concentrating on a particular area and am finding myself less drawn to the writing than to the area itself and the ideas it suggests to me. This isn’t necessarily a problem: My job affords me the opportunity to concentrate on this area. The problem is that as I try to strategize career-wise, I find that my strengths lie more in these ideas and less in my writing on them; I’m being recognized more for my thoughts, in other words, than for my writing. I feel in some sense that I’m taking on more of a curatorial position, building a body of work whose value lies in the sum of its pieces. I’ve thought lately that I could improve my brand by realizing those ideas in different ways: organizing a speaker’s series in my city, for example; I’m actually at the very, very, very early stages of a “book” project that I envision as a collection of images and an introductory essay — again, a work that I value for the ideas behind it and it being something nobody’s yet collected (or curated), and not something that will advance me as a writer (when I discuss this project with other writers, they’re very dismissive since, as I said, it’s not a “book” book).

I’m not quite sure what I’m asking for here, and I apologize if that’s frustrating. I guess I’m curious as to your thoughts on a path with no model in terms of form (writer, painter, filmmaker, etc.), but one guided by a defined yet intangible topic area. It seems a bit terrifying because there seems to be no firm goal to work toward — no novel or New Yorker staff position or Academy Award-winning film — other than gaining the opportunity to work in the ideas and issues and topics that interest me. And who knows how or if I could even monetize that. Am I naive to think a formless path is possible?

Your site is a real treasure. I appreciate your work on it.

Thank you the kind words and for de-lurking. I hope others like you follow suit.

As for taking the Formless Path, I don’t think you’re naive at all. When I’m with my writer friends all we talk about is the Formless Path. The Formless Path is killing us, and what’s extra infuriating is the fact that the Old Path (writer, painter, filmmaker, etc.) was ALREADY PRETTY F*CKING FORMLESS TO BEGIN WITH.

Frankly, I think the big decision facing every artist right now is not about the Nature of the Path, but what you expect to get out of the Path.

• Do you need to write/paint/make films for a living?
• Does the writing/painting/filmmaking need to be your identity?
• Does the product of your creativity need to make sense to other people (i.e. my friend Dennis writes books that teach kids about famous artists)?

Your writer friends are thinking critically not creatively. Your book project doesn’t sound like a book to them. What do they know? It’s all up for grabs and there isn’t a creative professional alive who can tell you what they’re going to be doing five years from now or if they’ll be making any money doing it.

So do your book. Do your speaker’s series. Get yourself out there and collaborate and meet people and experiment and play. If you’re any good it will make sense over time, even if you have idea what to make of now.

A reader writes:

Where is the line nowadays for writing about friends? I’m talking as a journalist, although another friend of mine the other day had the classic question about writing about family (personal essay) that we each must answer, too. My line so far goes like this: I am happy to quote my friends as sources in part of a larger piece that is not about them. I’m less comfortable pitching a story *about* a good friend’s new business with me as the writer. But am I wrong about this? To me, I can hardly be objective about someone that I know really well, and that I expect to continue to hang out with — i.e., I want to remain friends with that person. On the other hand, I know someone who pitched and wrote a profile of a filmmaker friend for City Pages.

The answer to this question depends a lot on the nature of the story.

If you’re writing an essentially promotional piece, then I don’t think friendship is an issue.

Are the editors of the Times Sunday Style section assiduously combing New York City for that which is objectively most stylish and now? Or are they writing about what their friends are doing? Readers assume a certain amount of logrolling so don’t sweat it.

If you’re writing a critical piece; however, then your friendship might be an issue. If you’ve treated Michael Jackson and you want to write a story about how the media is overreacting to his alleged prescription drug abuse, then readers need to know you have a relationship with your source.

How this is handled is ultimately between you and your editor. You have to recuse yourself from the story. Or, a simple “full disclosure” will do.

The question of whether your friendship will survive the story is separate. Even if you’re nice your friend can take something you wrote the wrong way. Or maybe they get mad at you for not being nice enough.

I think the answer may be as simple as having a conversation with your friend about this very topic. As long as both of you understand that what happens in the public sphere is business (you’ll get some praise but you might take some knocks) and what happens in the private sphere is friendship (you are my special, special star) then if you’re both grownups then you should both be fine.

So go ahead and write that story. And when you’re done:

Wheeeeee!

A reader writes:

Of all the things that I thought might be challenging about trying to write a book, it never dawned on me — until very recently — that it would be hard to get anyone to read it. I mean be a reader, as in read and comment. I thought writing was the hard stuff, but based on my success at inducing others to read and comment, I would have to say that reading and commenting must be much more difficult, for no one I know wants to do so. I recently read a book by a fairly well known author who identified those people who had been her “readers” –  and low and behold I knew one of them. Wow, I thought, there was my one chance to snag a reader and she beat me to it.

So:  What advice would you offer to a novice writer who is looking for a reader, for someone who will give the writing a fair but critical look and take the time to give feedback?

The practical answer is to take a class. I’ve always had good luck meeting new writers through classes and conferences. Another possibility would be to ask around your local bookstore or coffee shop. I supposed you could also advertise on Craig’s List.

The more holistic answer is that you get what you give. If you start volunteering your time to give feedback other people’s work, then you’ll soon find yourself on the receiving end of sweet reciprocity. Being a good reader means you’ll be good and read.

Some tips:

1. Keep it OUT of the family

Parents, siblings, spouses and dear friends are the absolute worst people to read your work, so it stands to reason that you shouldn’t read their work either. It’s impossible not to think about them hiding inside the characters and story (or worse, yourself) and any feedback will be clouded by preconception. Time to meet new people.

2. Limit your feedback to one or two vital areas

Even the best advice can only be addressed in stages. If you unload a laundry list of observations and insights, you’ll not only muddy your most important points, but you’ll risk the person tuning you entirely.

3. Only copy edit if people specifically ask for it (and even then proceed with great caution)

No one wants to hear about the typo on page 237. It makes people feel ignorant and it makes you look petty and small. Let the machines do the work.

4. Say less rather than more

Give your listener credit. If you feel the beginning is slow, say the beginning feel slow. You don’t need to dissect the slowness.

5. Questions are more helpful than statements

Telling people about the flaws in their work puts them on the defensive. Asking questions helps them step outside themselves and see their work through your eyes.

So instead of saying their protagonist is wimpy, say something like, “Do you want this guy to come across as super passive?”

5. Remember who the writer is

The cardinal sin of giving feedback is getting in and rewriting it yourself. Your job is to give an honest reaction, not right wrongs. Even if you have the coolest idea for the coolest ending ever, please keep it to yourself.

6. Don’t be offended if the person doesn’t take your advice

Rule #6 is Rule #1. Everyone walks their own path. It’s taken me over ten years to follow advice that I got from my first writing teacher. Be kind, generous and supportive and then walk away. It all comes back.

Beliefs about teaching as information/skills transfer

I am the teacher. You are my student. I have life knowledge in my head computer. Your head computer does not. As my student, you expect to download my life knowledge from my head computer directly into your head computer.

Failure of the direct download at the personal level is attributed to either the teacher or the student.

Failure of the direct download at the system level is attributed to the impossibility of teaching the subject.

Results take so long you lose track of cause and effect

Gregory Blake Smith was one of my teachers and mentors. Over twenty years ago, he likened point of view to a kite on a string. The more string you paid out, the higher the kite flew and the broader (and more distant) the point of view became.

When I heard first him say this I thought, “What do you know, old man?” During my apprenticeship I wrestled with that metaphor. Today it’s part of my daily practice.

Did Gregory Blake Smith teach me about point of view that day? No. Did he teach me about point of view eventually? Yes.

Genius obliterates reason

Geniuses are like airplane crashes. Statistically you’re more likely to die a car crash or a home accident than in an airline disaster, but when a plane goes down it’s a lot more dramatic than someone slipping in the tub. Those rare talents scramble our brains in the same way. A “silver gleaming death machine” comes along and we say, “You see! Writers are born, not made.”

Pride and ego makes us take credit for what others have given us

If you’ve ever worked in an office, then you understand the phenomenon of the boss who takes your idea and passes it off as his own. Writers are the same way, if not worse. One of the reasons we don’t believe writing can be taught is because writers are too close-lipped (or self-blind) to talk about how they were taught.

Beneficial “secondary benefits”

Whenever human beings are around you always want to look out for the secondary benefits to a belief. If writing can’t be taught, then teachers are off the hook for not teaching, and students are off the hook for not learning. We don’t have to think critically about our writing programs. We don’t have to risk having uncomfortable conversations about what’s working and what isn’t working (or, more pointedly, who isn’t working). In other words, we all have “plausible deniability” and nothing has to change.

A reader writes:

I would like to know why I always discount my efforts – I have “real” artwork (that I don’t seem to get around to doing much) and then I have “non-art” that I mess around with and do nearly every day. I tell people it’s a matter of intent and materials – just goofing around with whatever is at hand doesn’t cut it – I can’t show or sell the everyday stuff – only the serious art counts. Am I right or am I wrong?

I’m glad I don’t have examples of your work to cloud the issue. Because it doesn’t matter if your “real” artwork is a collection of fine (but neglected) oils and your “non-art” is macaroni glued to construction paper. What’s happening here is all about attitudes and beliefs.

The critical part of your mind thinks like this:

Your “real” art is up there with the hawks and the orcas. Your “non-” art is down there with the plants and the plankton.

You have these attitudes and beliefs because you grew up with parents, teachers, critics, the Evil Mainstream Media, etc. who feel more comfortable when culture is categorized into high and low, good and bad.

The artistic part of your mind, however, thinks like this:

In this context your “real” art and your “non-” art aren’t so easy to judge. Everything’s connected and related and somehow necessary. What it all means is up to you.

Is it better to be a maned goose or sedge? I don’t know. Maned geese are on top, but sedge is awfully central. Even daphnia and decayed matter—lowly as they are—can lay claim to getting good eat-and-be-eaten action.

Both the “food chain” and “food web” models of culture have their merits, but as someone who used to make a living as a critic, I can testify to how limiting the food chain mentality is. It’s hard to see the true potential of your work if you’re constantly putting things into categories.

The answer for you might be to stop goofing off and get serious, but let me ask you this:

What would happen if you stopped dismissing your “non-art” as “non-” and started taking it seriously? Where would you want to take it? How would you get it there?

Good luck and let me know how it goes.

A reader writes:

My name is NAME and I’m currently a junior at COLLEGE COLLEGE. My friend, NAME, who is in the same graduating class as me, referred me to your website. While I am a ACADEMIC MAJOR in a WORLD CITY right now, my true passion is writing poetry, and I’m trying to develop my skills in writing short stories. I am fairly certain that I want this hobby to become my career, but I don’t know where to even start! I will be the first person in my family to graduate with a 4-year degree, so I don’t have any relatives with applicable experience or knowledge. Do you have any advice on where to start?

I’ve been sitting on this question for months, and for our readers who are farther along in their writing careers I’m sure you understand why.

Where to start? Where to start? Is there a more impossible question to answer than WHERE TO START?

The advise that springs to mind is of the “just write” variety, advice that I will not give. “Just write” is dismissive and minimizing, like telling someone who’s clinically depressed that maybe they wouldn’t feel so crummy if they just lightened up and, you know, tried to have some fun and not worry so much all the time.

I couldn’t do that to you, NAME from COLLEGE COLLEGE. You say you have the desire. Very well. Now let’s put some shape to all that ambition. Let’s get you doing a web project.

The secret of getting ahead is getting started. The secret of getting started is breaking your complex overwhelming tasks into small manageable tasks, and then starting on the first one.

Mark Twain

Another way of approaching Twain’s advice is to take the “complex overwhelming task” and shrink it—in its entirety—until it’s small enough to be manageable.

Becoming a writer is a simple matter of mastering ideas, emotion, insight, subtext, research, writing, rewriting, polishing, publishing, marketing, publicity and finding, building and maintaining audience. You’re going to do all of those things, but on a scale you can handle.

Here’s what you need to do:

Pick the project

That memoir about your experiences growing up as the daughter of a cruel pineapple magnate is not a project. That’s your life’s work. A project is something like Skull-A-Day or SMITH Magazine’s Six-Word Memoirs. You will pick a project that is finite, manageable and low stakes, something like 36 Poems about Strawberry-Banana Yogurt.

Do the project

You will write your 36 poems about strawberry-banana yogurt. Or, if you are acting as an editor/curator, you will collect your 36 poems about strawberry-banana yogurt. (Per Doug’s comment, you will also need to set a deadline.)

Produce the project

Your project has to be public, but you’re not going to wait for permission. You’re going to put up a website (36PASBY.com is available, btw). You’ll do this yourself, or you’ll gain the invaluable experience of collaborating with other people who have different skills than you have. Either way you’re going to make it look rad.

Support the project

You will do all the things that people with “real” books do. You will throw a launch party. You will start a Facebook group (even if you are over Facebook). You will pitch a story to your local newspaper. (Again, if you’re up to the task, then collaborate. Doesn’t everyone know an aspiring publicist?)

Put an end to the project

The point of this exercise is to be quick and light and effective. If 36 Poems about Strawberry-Banana Yogurt takes off, then that’s great. If it doesn’t, then you will have already built in a sunset provision. Let your project be what it’s meant to be. Then walk away.

Rest

Rest is important. Rest now.

Asses the project

How did it go? What went wrong? What went right? What was in your control? What was out of your control? Be honest with yourself, but also be kind. It’s just a project.

Learn from the project

This whole time you’ve been (lightly) learning about what you do well, what you struggle with, what you think you could improve, what you’re always going to be hopeless at. Now take a moment to write down the lessons learned.

Rest again

Did I not mention that rest is important? Please rest again.

Do another project

Take what you’ve learned from the first project and do another one. And another. And another. And another. With a little hard work and luck these projects will grow in scope and size and important.

Then one day you’ll wake up to find that your next project is that memoir about growing up the child of a cruel pineapple magnate. Project and life’s work have become interchangeable. Fortunately, the muscles and skills you developed doing your web projects apply quite nicely. You’ll also find that you’ve managed to collect some friends, readers and collaborators along the way.

Then the book comes out, and you go on the radio, and the interviewer asks you how you got started as a writer, and you’ll smile and tell her about 36 Poems about Strawberry-Banana Yogurt and that story will absolutely kill.

You win. The end.

The hands of our next great novelist?

Many years ago I heard a radio interview with Scott Turow about his experience working as a mailman. This was in the days before businesses and organizations were obsessed with efficiency, and there was an unwritten rule that if you finished your route early, it was okay not to come back to the post office until your shift was officially over. Turow used the extra time (he said he’d finish his route in five hours) to go to the public library and read Joyce and dream about being a writer.

Ulysses was going to teach him about the novel, but he’d already learned an important lesson about having the right day job. Lately, as I’ve been advising Carleton students about how to start a career in the arts, I’ve been encouraging them to consider money work that will either give them more control over their schedule, or keep their mind free, or help fill the pot with experience.

Personally, if I were doing this all over again, I’d go with hair stylist.

First, you’ve gotta love the hours. You might have to open early once in a while, but no one is expecting you there at eight. I like the idea of getting up at six, writing for two or three hours and still having plenty of time to get to work.

Second, cutting hair is social. Bartenders are supposedly the great collectors of our collective confessions, but I tell my hair stylist all kinds of personal, self-revealing things. What could be better than having a variety of (non-drunk) people bringing you their lives?

Third, working with your hands keeps you mentally (and creatively) engaged without burning out your language centers. (Matthew Crawford’s new book SHOP CLASS AS SOULCRAFT argues that physical work may even be better for your soul. Click here for Michael Agger’s take on it in Slate.)

Fourth, you won’t get rich chopping hair, but unless we move into some kind of post-apocalyptic bullets-and-spring water economy you probably won’t go broke either. You’ll make a good living, but not so good of a living that you risk selling out the dream.

Final thought:

From talking to a friend of mine who is a stylist, your biggest worry is probably staying clean and sober. It’s a boozy, druggy business, and if you’re young it may be hard to refuse all that fun. But if you can get your ass home and go to bed at a reasonable hour, then I don’t see any reason why cutting hair couldn’t be your before-you-make-it dream job.