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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

I haven’t yet put my [Publish-on-Demand] novel up, and I was wondering about agents. I’m sending out query letters (yes, I’ve read what you have to say about those). Will having this novel out there in POD form damage my ability to get an agent? I’m not sure the current attitudes towards these publishing outlets. For so long there has been a stigma against vanity presses and I don’t want that kind of reaction. But I also want to be someone who is . . . well, I don’t know the word exactly, but waiting around for the magic of an agent seems inadequate these days.

First, I will answer with Photoshop:

[Thanks to daneilmmfx for the raw image. Click this link to visit his site and make your own Hollywood sign with proper font.]

Second, with words:

As I can’t tell from your question if you’re worried that your POD novel will sour your chances for getting an agent for the POD novel, or for other projects, I’ll answer both.

It’s very, very, very rare that a self-published book gets picked up by a mainstream publisher, but it does happen. Christopher Paolini’s ERAGON is a famous example. (Want some old news? Here’s the 2003 Seattle PI story on Paolini’s deal.) But it’s not like ICM has a department devoted to finding the next POD-to-traditional hit. Most will politely decline.

As for future project interference, I think it all depends on how you play it.

You will lose points by saying this to an agent:

“I self-published PINEAPPLES ARE PICKED SOUR: The Fleecing of the American Hospitality Customer because ignorant, hot-shot cretins like you were blind to my genius.”

You will score points by saying this to an agent:

“I self-published PINEAPPLES ARE PICKED SOUR: The Fleecing of the American Hospitality Customer because I thought it was an opportunity to explore a niche market and gain experience promoting my work. I hope to apply what I learned from PAPS to my mainstream book experience.”

The real question here is whether or not you’re willing to do all the things you’ll need to do to make that POD novel worth your while. Check out the Self-Publishing Review and other sites that offer a similarly realistic view of the POD experience.

Final thought: Sometimes that novel that you can’t sell is the novel you can’t sell as your first novel. Lots of authors end up publishing out of sequence due to timing, subject matter, audience robusticity, etc.

Nice guy. Terrible manager.

A reader writes:

I’m been putting final polishes on my manuscript, and I think I’m there, so now, I’m looking at agents. Actually, I’ve been building a list for a while, but when looking at some larger agencies, I wonder as a first-time novelist, what would be the ‘good idea’ when deciding which agent to send a query letter – a newer agent, ‘actively building’ his or her list, or a more established agent? This is assuming both are looking for the genre I write in, of course. I tend to think sending to the newer agent at a large agency would be the best choice. What do you think?

1. Scanning the acknowledgments of books you admire for agent-related intel;
2. Reading Galleycat, Publishers Marketplace, etc. for same;
3. Going to conferences and meeting people in a non-crazy way;
4. Avoiding generic directories such as Writer’s Market.

Help! I have ten paper children and a series of WIP’s that seem to be multiplying behind my back. I can’t stop writing, it’s like crack. I only know writing. I would like to know a literary agent, a publisher, a marketing genius, and perhaps even an author who could steer me in the right direction….oh wait…might that…be you?

If so… Should I have an authors website? It seems a bit presumptuous. I have a blog, I’m not sure anyone reads this blog but it does exist. I write literary fiction and women’s fiction (let’s call a spade a spade, it’s chick lit). I have three partials out and one outstanding query. This past summer I sent (no joke) near 100 query’s. I attended last years BEA and met amazing literary agents all of who requested and rejected partials.

Oddly enough, I’m still not convinced I’m a bad writer. Perhaps I can send you the first page of say, three or four of my novels and maybe you can tell me whether or not I should be watching more TV?

Any help is invaluable as you are the only person (sans a Deity) I am looking to for advice.

First, some light scolding.

If I were still a literary agent, I probably would’ve stopped reading after the first sentence. I have no idea what “ten paper children and a series of WIP’s” means. In the cold, cruel world of publishing, if you can’t be clear in your first sentence, you’re done.

Fortunately, I’m here to help and not to keep gates.

I had an e-mail exchange with the author in which I learned that she has written ten books. Four aren’t marketable. Four are stand-alone novels. The remaining two are part of a “chick lit” series.

Much better. But there is still way too much going on here.

Think of your first book as a small business. You want to start up this little company called Someday I’ll Be Great, Inc. or Everything I’ ve Ever Hoped For, LLC.

Now imagine going to the bank for a loan. You’re not going to tell them you want money for a car wash . . . or maybe a hair salon . . . on second thought, make that a children’s photography studio . . . no, that’s not it . . . how about an organic apple orchard?

Agents are the same way. You may end up getting a multi-book deal, but generally it’s the one book that gets you in the door.

Furthermore, that one book (or any book for that matter) has a very long life cycle. It takes time to sell, time to edit, time to promote in hardcover, time to promote in paperback, time to continue to promote in paperback. (They are, indeed, paper children.)

What is that one book for you? I do not know, my friend. But it is one book. Make your choice, hunker down and get ready to work it to death. (At least, until you write the next one.)

We probably all have a million ideas for things we could write or produce. How do we know which ones are worthy of our time and attention?

I used to write down every idea. I carried around an Ampad Reporter’s Notebook (Gregg ruled, please!) that I special ordered from a business supply company in St. Paul.

In my idea-hoarding prime, I might go through two or three pads a month. I wrote down everything:

• Update Smokey and the Bandit but make it so it’s, you know, good
• Sci-fi story where humans are second on the food chain?
• Start magazine that makes The New Yorker obsolete

Then, about three years ago, I stopped.

It wasn’t because the ideas were as absurd, vague or grandiose as the above. The reason I stopped was because I was getting much better at having ideas than I was at executing them. I had a storage closet filled with boxes filled with notebooks filled with ideas, but I wasn’t writing or publishing any more than I did when I first started my career.

Now when I have an idea I do the following:

1. Enjoy it

Ideas feel good. They make me smile and feel smart. Good for me.

2. See if the idea can be re-purposed to fit into an existing project

As writers and artists we tend to circle around and inhabit certain themes. Often a new idea isn’t new at all, but rather another way of getting at something you’re already working on. See what happens when you start thinking about ideas not as “new” but as part of an ever-forming whole.

3. If it doesn’t fit, then I say goodbye

I have three books in various stages of completion and precious little time to work on them. It’s a shame to throw out a perfectly good idea or insight, but these books need my help, not my divided attention.

4. If it comes back and it’s genuinely a new idea, then I ask myself if I really want to do the work

I recently had an idea to do a piece on Arnold Schwarzenegger. The Running Man was on cable and I thought, “Look how far this guy has come. And yet he’s still a punchline. Maybe it’s time for a reappraisal.”

But do I really want to do the work it would take to write that story? Do I really want to try to get access? Or watch all of his old movies? Or become well-versed enough in California state politics?

The answer, sadly, is no.

5. If the idea comes back again, and still can’t be re-purposed, then I have no choice but to work on it

[Sighs] All right. If you insist. But you better be worth it . . . .

You know, you’ve mentioned this issue of “readiness” in at least a couple of posts now. [ed. note: she is referring to What the @#$%! Am I Doing with My Life] I think intuitively I get this, but maybe you could talk about how to practice and/or recognize readiness. For e.g., I didn’t get why you said in one of your previous posts that you wouldn’t be ready to write a film. But maybe it’s because you haven’t been living the steps that would lead to that?

Great question. Please allow me to respond with a series of questions that you can ask yourself:

1. Am I ready to do the work just once?

Go read the comments section on Nathan Bransford’s blog. There are any number of posters who you can tell are further along in their dreams than they are in their work. (And bless them for it.)

Depending on what you’re doing, you may be in for a long apprenticeship. Would you really want to get your big break if you couldn’t deliver even once?

2. Am I ready to do the work with some frequency and consistency?

You think Genre Writer X is a hack, but she’s producing a book a year. You laugh at the unintentionally funny columnist in your community newspaper, but his work does meet a certain standard.

Even being consistently mediocre is harder than it looks. You may have an excellent spec script for a sitcom, but could you produce 22 episodes a year?

3. Am I ready to handle the attention?

Say you create your breakout work. Good job. So what else do you have?

“What else?” is the first question the gatekeepers ask. If you don’t have a vision for the next thing (and the next and the next) then there is a chance that you’ve wasted that particular opportunity.

4. Am I ready to go out and attract attention?

Actors have it easy. Their need for attention borders on the biological. The rest of us struggle with promotion, self- and otherwise.

It’s not just a matter of being good at radio, TV, print, etc. It’s being able to take a project, put it on your back, and carry it for years.

5. Am I ready to sustain attention?

You’re a success! Enjoy it! You’re a success! Now you have a f*cking target on your back!

Do well and your fans love you, but they also start to raise their expectations. Do well and your critics and enemies are actively trying to take your ass down. How are you going to deal with all that (in public) while also getting the work done?

6. Am I ready to make use of that sustained attention?

I always think of Michael Pollan as a writer who’s not only at the top of his game creatively, but who’s also assumed a leadership role in our culture.

Now we’re talking about the full integration of work, audience, and public profile. We’re talking about having a direct effect on how people talk, think, behave, vote. Are you ready to be at the center of all that?

***

If this sounds overwhelming, don’t worry about it too much. You don’t have a lot of control over how, when or why things happen. We’re all familiar with stories of people for whom success came too fast. We also know people who never got their due.

That said, if you’re starting out and you have grand ambitions, then the aforementioned questions could help you in your quest.

If you want to be the Michael Pollan of sustainable architecture, then there are certain skills that you can practice to help make that happen. Join Toastmasters in order to bone up on your public speaking. Take up podcasting to work on your radio mojo. The big dream is completely impossible, but also eminently doable.

Do ghostwriting credits carry any extra weight with agents? Does this help you with an industry “in” as well as the learning curve of book writing?

When I worked for a literary agency, we often got query letters from aspiring writers who had what you might call “related experience.” In other words, they had written copy or marketing materials or press releases. In some cases, they had ghostwritten speeches or articles for the opinion page or even books.

At first, I paid extra attention to people with related experience. I believed (and still do) that all writing counts. Even if you spend your entire day naming subdivisions, it all contributes (if obliquely) to your art’s grand design.

The problem is that people (related experience or not) invariably query too soon. The typical agent probably gets more query letters from people who want to be published than they do from people who are ready to be published. As a result, all kinds of things that should count toward credibility end up in the category of “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

For example, let’s say you get a query letter about a murder mystery set in Antarctica, and it’s written by someone who lived in Antarctica for five seasons. Great, right? It’s set in a very specific place and the guy has lived in the very specific place.

But then the partial comes and you immediately see that the writer has no ability to evoke Antarctica. He’s thinks he can, but he can’t. Five years from now he’ll have that skill. Ten years from now he’ll not only be able to evoke Antarctica, but he’ll have the savvy to use that experience metaphorically in a book about a community of germaphobes who live an extremely isolated existence in the middle of Manhattan.

All that said, you will want to mention your ghostwriting credentials if said project

a. was published by a major house

b. was published by a smaller house but sold well

c. involved a high-profile collaborator

d. is supremely kick-ass.

Just know that anything and everything you put in front of an agent is going to be met with a certain amount of self-protecting skepticism. You never want your query to hinge on one thing. Spread the awesome around and you’ll do fine.