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:

After receiving my MA in philosophy I decided that adjunct teaching would give me time to write fiction. But now that I am teaching 8 courses/semester and doing assorted freelance work I just want to get some sleep. So I’m thinking of a career change.

My big plan was to start an Master in Library and Information Science.

You seem to spend a lot of time in libraries–and know about publishing trends. The recent budget cuts for public libraries in Ohio have compounded my fears.

Do you have any thoughts on the long term value of an MLIS either for working public/college libraries or for a new line of freelance work (i.e the non-traditional path seems to include things like working for publishers, ghost writing, etc.)?

One of the earliest readers of this blog is getting her degree in library and information science. I think it’s an exciting and valuable line of work to pursue.

The budget cuts are scary, but I’d advise you not to get too distracted by the short-term noise. If you enter this field you’ll be right in the middle of the following big questions:

• What is the future of the old-fashioned, paper-based book?
• How are we going to realize the full artistic and cultural potential of electronic books?
• How are we going to preserve our cultural and intellectual heritage if it’s locked up in (possibly unreadable) data?
• Format aside, how are going to cope with the incredible volume of information?
• Finally, who owns all this information and what rights do people have to use/alter/share it?

I don’t think the money is going to be a real issue here. Yes, there are going to be budget cuts to some public libraries, but university libraries, corporate libraries, foundation libraries, etc. are only going to grow.

I also believe that any number of innovative, surprising and perhaps even bizarre new entities will spring up around the hardcore information science issues. The Google Books Library Project is the just the beginning.

The real question is whether or not you want to be a part of all this chaos and uncertainty, because I think it could get pretty hairy.

My apologies if I’m reading you wrong, but it seems to me that you have this image of becoming a librarian so you can pad around in crepe soled shoes and quietly shelve books while you secretly think about your novel.

I have a feeling that doing this career right may involve more of an Indiana Jones approach. It may require much more whip cracking, swashbuckling and switching sandbags for golden icons than any of us imagine.

So by all means do it. But do it with gusto and verve. We’re going to need it.

A reader writes:

A few months back, you posted (here) on the idea of carefully crafted “tent poles” — which, as I read it, meant key scenes, Big Moments, not necessarily with fights and explosions but with a lot of propulsive (even if intellectual) energy. You didn’t say explicitly in your post to construct the tent poles first, and then go back and cover them with canvas (as it were). But that’s what I’ve been experimenting with. And I think it’s working. So far.

My question: can you think of a handy set of guidelines for how to establish a rhythm of such scenes? This might factor in the length of the novel, the kind (action-y vs. less so), maybe the number of characters, the POV, whatever. I’ve got one HUGE tent-pole moment — the climactic chapter — and maybe six or eight lesser ones. Structurally, I can imagine a plotline in which the tent poles were gradually ramping up to the huge one; I can imagine a rhythm established by the lengths of these scenes, and the lengths of the scenes which tie them together; I can imagine a rhythm in which the energy alternates more or less evenly, going UP, down, UP, down, etc. until finally there’s a sort of pause — an extended down, I guess you could say, followed by the big UPPPP of that last one. Not looking for some precise mathematical or geometric rule, of course. Just wondering if you see relative value in one vs. another.

Without seeing the work it’s impossible for me to give you feedback on structure, but I think you’re on the right track in how you’re thinking about tent poles:

You seem to get that the number of tent poles is finite

If you feel you have 27 key scenes then you either can’t tell the major from the minor or you’re trying to do too much in one work.

You’re right about rhythm

Go too long between tent pole moments and your reader might get bored. Pack them too close together and your reader might feel overwhelmed. Finding that right balance between tension and release is key.

You’re also right that tent poles don’t have to involve plot, big character movement, etc.

While pondering this question I kept thinking about the scene in the film Gone with the Wind when Scarlett O’Hara is at the train depot and the camera cranes up to reveal wounded Confederate soldiers stretching to the horizon.

A tent pole moment can be as seemingly insignificant as a transition or an aside, but it has that “wow” factor that makes you love the work and want to keep going.

Final thought:

Getting back to your question about sequencing, I think the best thing you can do is to stay loose and playful.

Screenwriters and television writers often write the gist of scenes on note cards and pin them to a cork board.

See what happens when turn  your tent pole moments into building blocks that you can move around in space.

A reader writes:

I would like to apologize to a former editor for being an arrogant little sh*t. I don’t necessarily need, want, or expect to work with this person again. But it has been weighing on my conscience for many months. Should I apologize, as a fellow human being who was clearly in the wrong? Or would any attempt be viewed as a pathetic attempt to suck up? Should I write a letter and stick it in a drawer? I can’t decide if my need to apologize is purely selfish and should be some ritual for my own personal catharsis, or if it would actually be a decent human thing to do to send it and ultimately appreciated by the receiver. Even, as I mentioned, if we never work together again. Help me, Mr. Blue.

The conventional wisdom says that one should never explain and never apologize. Saying that you’re sorry makes you look weak and does nothing to un-burn the bridge.

As I alluded to in yesterday’s post, you should especially hold your apologies for things outside of your control. Never apologize for not being published, or for being published locally but not nationally, etc.

That said, if you did something wrong then there’s nothing wrong with apologizing. The only catch is that you have to do it right away. If you apologize within 24 hours then it seems sincere. If you’re apologizing after a few days or a week then it seems calculated.

Also, people in this business are tougher than you think. Keep the apology simple and direct. Then move on and never mention the incident ever again.

Final thought:

If you’ve let the relationship go and for some reason want to rekindle the editorial flames, send in a smokin’ hot pitch. Fresh ideas heal all wounds.

A reader writes:

I’ve started exploring a possible story on SUPER SECRET STORY IDEA and I’m successful getting email replies to my original query from some significant clinicians and players in research. So, the question I’m often asked is: “What magazine are you writing for?” Of course I wish I had an assignment from a magazine. Our buddy Dan Baum, even lacking the assignment, would say he’s writing (in his example) for “Wired” because in a sense he contends that he is–doing all this leg-work free for an article he’s going to pitch at “Wired”. But I can’t get away with this can I?–”I’m writing for Psychology Today.” When the question has come up in the past I’ve said that I’m writing on spec and hope no one asks where I’ve been published. “Well, a couple literary quarterlies.” So how do I handle ingratiating myself to key sources so that they don’t blow me off and have enough confidence in me to spill the beans?

I don’t think there’s anything wrong with being honest. Tell them that you’re a freelance writer and that your plan is to take the story to Psychology Today.

If the source asks where you’ve been published then mention the name of the journals. Or tell them that you’re just starting out.

Whatever you do don’t apologize. There’s no shame in being new.

If they won’t talk to you, then ask them if they know anyone who will. If they offer another source then pursue that lead.

If they say they don’t know anyone (or if the person they recommend doesn’t pan out) then press them again to help you. Appeal to their vanity. You know from your research that they’re the single most important source for this story, a story that will completely change how we think about INTERESTING SUBJECT MATTER.

Or try luring them into a conversation. Tell them you just want to verify one fact or confirm one theory (then shut up and watch while they talk for half an hour).

If they still won’t talk to you then move down the list and pick the next source.

Wait . . . you don’t have a list of sources categorized by information need and then ranked in order of importance?

If you don’t have such a list, then get one. Every story has its dream scene, its dream quote, its dream fact. With some pieces it’s obvious, like getting the tobacco executive to admit that they’ve known for decades that cigarettes are harmful. With other stories it might be more subtle: a tough guy in a moment of vulnerability or a public saint betraying a hint of avarice. In the right context a boring statistic can be undeniably powerful.

If you can identify these ideal outcomes then you’re more likely either to get them outright or to recognize variations of them that fall into your lap.

Final thought:

Knowing what you want also helps your credibility. In my experience I’ve always gotten more out of interview subjects when I’m a mission. I don’t know how they can tell, but sources know the difference between hunting and fishing.

I’m not printing the reader question this time because the original e-mail I received was a mini-proposal, and the subsequent exchange is best left summarized. Here’s the gist:

I’m not a writer by trade, but I’m working on a book that will help advance a cause related to my primary career, which is education. I feel very passionately about a certain educational philosophy and would like to see it more widely implemented. In other words, I want to change the world. How do I go about writing and publishing such a book?

I am tempted to temper your expectations with a quote from Henry Wadsworth Longfellow:

“Most people would succeed in small things, if they were not troubled with great ambitions.”

But I will not do that, because there are things in this world that undoubtedly need changing, and I see no reason to discourage you. The question is how a book fits into those plans. On that score I offer the following thoughts:

Are you settling an existing argument or starting a new one?

Imagine it’s the 80s and you have a thoughtful, peaceful way of reducing global terrorism. In the United States you would’ve had a very hard time getting people interested in your book or your cause. Terrorism was something that happened somewhere else.

If, on the other hand, it’s the 80s and you have a thoughtful, peaceful way of ending the nuclear arms race, then you fit very comfortably into the existing cultural and intellectual framework.

In the first example, your challenge is to change the conversation entirely. In the second example, your challenge is to beat out the other people who already have turf claims to the conversation. These are two very different jobs. Act accordingly.

How close to the bone is your cause?

Perhaps the most famous world-changing book in the United States is Upton Sinclair’s The Jungle (Google Books version here). You cannot read this book and not instinctively cry out for the Meat Inspection Act!

Funnily enough, Sinclair intended the book to explose the plight of the American factory worker, but his original vision was sidelined because tainted meat is more visceral than exploited people.

Education-related causes are tricky because they’re abstract. If you find out your kids are eating maggot-infested school lunch you’ll drop what you’re doing and call the principle. If you find out your kids are enrolled in a language arts program that one study finds is 15% less effective than most language arts programs, then you may do nothing at all.

I’m not saying that the inadequate language arts program isn’t important. It’s just that it doesn’t feel as important. One of your challenges is to figure out how to make your cause feel more immediate.

Does the book have to be a book?

Books are persuasive. But so are documentaries, websites, poster campaigns, etc. If your goal is to be an author whose books affect change, then there is only one path. If the book is simply the means, then the paths are many.

Final thought:

The book is a conversation point, a springboard, a start. But the book can’t do it alone. Books don’t fight your fight for you. You’ll need collaborators, supporters, allies, evangelists, etc.

Ultimately, it all comes down to you. There was a bit in The New Yorker recently about how every public park or national monument happens because one person becomes an enormous pain in the ass for that cause. If I were you, I’d concentrate on how you’re going to be that pain in the ass. If you get a book out of it, then so be it.

Good luck and let me know how it goes.

A reader writes:

I’m applying for a grant to help me complete the final revision of my book. The idea was tossed out there that because my proposal doesn’t use as much as the funds as are available to me should I be awarded that I also request money for seeking publication of the novel. How much should could it cost to mail out the manuscript to several places and make phone calls? How many hours are really spent on this aspect by rookies who get the contracts?

Read the grant guidelines to make sure you can use the funds for this purpose. Some grants are very specific about how you’re supposed to use the funds. Others are for more general development.

That said, submitting your manuscript isn’t going to cost you that much money because a lot happens electronically. Before I turned in my first book, I had this fantasy about printing out the manuscript, boxing it up and shipping it to New York.

Instead I submitted it as an attachment.

If I were you, I’d look elsewhere for ways to pad your funding request.

A reader writes:

I have a complete fantasy novel manuscript, but no one wants it yet. Slush piles have turned up nothing, so I’m trying agents. The only problem is, my Writer’s Market doesn’t have agent listings, and I have no idea where to start looking! Where should I start looking for spec. fiction agents? Do they have their own directory? Is there a reliable agent directory with a sub-listing for fantasy and sci-fi market agents? Is there a way to get a feel for an agent before querying them? My story is somewhat unusual compared to most fantasy novels, and I have no idea how to make sure the agent I’m sending to is the sort who is willing to take a chance on something new. Any advice on the matter of speculative fiction agents would be tremendously appreciated and would go a long way towards my further awesomeness. Thank you very much for your time.

I put “speculative fiction” agent into our friend Google and got this nifty link right here as the first return. I hope this gets you started in terms of the information you need.

But, as always, what I’m really interested in is the question behind the question, or the problem behind the question, which in your case (and correct me if I’m wrong) is that you’re out there doing this entirely on your own.

If you were part of a network (virtual or otherwise) of speculative fiction writers, then you wouldn’t be asking me about finding an agent. You’d be asking them.

I’m happy to help, but I’m no substitute for a group of like-minded peers. We recently discussed ways to find people to give you feedback on your work. Writers who are ready to publish or are starting to get published might not need the feedback, but they still need the community.

Some things to consider:

Take an excerpt from your novel and rework it as a short piece

Short pieces aren’t going to make you rich and famous, but they do build audience, mark territory and send secret messages to your peers.

Start a writing group

You don’t have to read each others work. Get together, talk about stuff (or things) and stay in touch. Then help each other out when your careers start to break.

Make something happen

If you’re not interested in going to a conference, perhaps you’d like to work at one. Contributing to your genre’s scene (even if it’s just taking tickets at the door) gets you in front of people and behind the scenes.

As I’ve said before (and if I haven’t, please pretend that I have) the road to publication is painfully long. The worst thing you can do is passively wait. What’s more, if you’re out there stirring things up, you just might find that the agents will start coming to you.

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.