The Writer’s Enemy List: Dream Smashers, Crazymakers and Groucho Marxists

 When you start a writing project, whether you’re diving into the intensity of NaNoWriMo, or just carving out a few hours to peck away at the keyboard on weekends, it helps to get emotional support from friends and family.

But be prepared for the opposite.

Some people in your life may find your new interest threatening, and if you’re not emotionally prepared, they can derail your project and undermine your self esteem. They’ll work to sabotage your writing and confidence in dozens of subtle—or not-so-subtle—ways.

Here are some non-supportive types to watch out for, and tips on how to deal with them:

Dream Smashers

These are the know-it-alls who specialize in discouragement.

• They’re full of statistics showing the odds against getting published. 

• They’ll send links to articles with dire warnings about carpal tunnel syndrome and back injuries due to long sessions with the computer.

• They have an unending supply of stories about suicide and depression in writers.

They may appear to be supportive at first, and may even express an eagerness to read your WIP—only to give entirely negative feedback.

• They always “know” some rule that you’ve broken—probably mis-remembered from their 5^th grade grammar class.

• They’ll criticize your premise in a way that’s also a personal attack: “nobody wants to read about women over 40/washed-up athletes/teenagers with disabilities.”

• They’ll criticize anything in your work that doesn’t promote their own world view, and suggest the story would be much better if the hero were more like them. 

These people have given up on their own dreams, and want you to do the same.

Encourage them to write their own damn books.

Crazymakers

Creativity guru Julia Cameron described these people as “storm centers…long on problems but short on solutions.”

They are the drama queens, emotional vampires, and control freaks who crave your full- time attention and can’t stand for you to focus on anything but their own dramas.

Writers are magnets for these people because we tend to be good listeners.

• You tell your Crazymaker friend your writing schedule, but she’ll always “forget,” and show up at exactly the time your story is on a roll. She’ll draw you into a weepy tale of woe, saying you’re the “only one who understands.”

• Have a deadline for a difficult article? That’s the moment Crazymaker will stomp into your office and confess the affair he had four years ago when you were on a relationship break. 

• Got an agent waiting for a rewrite? That’s the week Mrs. Crazymaker calls to beg you to babysit her sick child because she can’t take off work. After all, she has a REAL job

Crazymakers need to be center stage, 24/7. Nothing you do can be of any importance: your job description is “minion.”

Resign.

Groucho Marxists

The Groucho Marxist manifesto is, to paraphrase the great Julius Henry Marx: “I do not care to read a book by a person who would accept me as a friend.”

Groucho Marxists are your family members and buddies who assume your work is terrible because it was written by somebody they know.

I’m not talking about those helpful beta readers who comb through your unpublished manuscript looking for flaws to be fixed before you submit.

These are the folks who feel compelled to ridicule and belittle your work, whether they’ve read it or not. No amount of success will convince them you’re any good.

• You get a story published. Groucho can’t be bothered to read it. But he’s always bringing you stories by other writers in your genre, “so you can see how a REAL writer does it.”

• You get your big call from that agent. Groucho will try to convince you she’s a scammer. Why would a real agent represent a nobody like you?

• You sign with a publisher. Groucho thinks he's heard a rumor the company is about to go under: look how desperate they must be if they’d publish your book.

• You get a good review. Groucho doesn’t have time to read it. But he has lots of time to research other pieces by that reviewer to show the reviewer has terrible taste.

• You win a Pulitzer. What? No Nobel?

 These people are highly competitive and feel your success will make you “better than them.”

Remind them of their own skills and accomplishments and reassure them that any writing success you achieve won’t change your relationship.

It’s hard enough to live with the constant rejection we have to deal with in this industry, so when you’re attacked in your personal life, it’s tough to hang on. You have to erect strong boundaries and be fierce in defending them. But if you’re serious about your work, the people who really care about you will learn to treat your time and work with respect.

The others will evaporate.

Chances are you won’t miss them.

HOW DO YOU KNOW YOU’RE REALLY A WRITER?

Ever get the “OMG I’m-not-really-a-writer, why-am-I-kidding-myself” blues? Agent Nathan Bransford calls them the “Am-I-Crazies.” Most of us have been there. Rejections are pouring in. Your WIP is stalled. Your BFF has refused to listen to one more word about the unfairness of the publishing industry. After a sleepless, agonizing night, you decide you’re unworthy to call yourself a writer.

Q. So how DO you know if you’re a writer?

A. You write.

If you go off by yourself at regular intervals to create stuff using words, you’re a writer. Maybe you haven’t written anything publishable yet. Maybe you’ve written a bunch of first chapters that lead nowhere. Maybe you’ve never shown your stuff to anybody but your cat. But you’re a writer.

Some people are born to it. If you’re one of those, your early years went something like this:

·       You gave names and backstories to the characters in your coloring books.

·       You wrote a whodunit in third grade in which you killed off the assistant principal who gave you detention that time when it wasn’t even your fault.

·       You poured your adolescent angst into verses that relied heavily on rhyming the word “rain” with “pain.”

·       After your first romance ended, above the emotional agony, a tiny voice narrated in your head, “So this is what a broken heart feels like, she thought, as she trudged on leaden feet toward her empty room…”

Some of you came to it later. After taking an inspiring class, reading an extraordinary book, or experiencing something that begged to be shared in written form, strange things started to happen:

·       Both your roommates went off to a party. You weren’t invited. But you couldn’t have been happier. Time alone to write!

·       You could no longer join workplace chat about TV, because you didn’t even recognize the names of the shows. Who has time to waste on television?

·       When your friends exchanged funny stories about their kids, you chimed in with an anecdote about what your protagonist did last night.

·       Writing took on the urgency of a bodily function.

Other writers are just getting started. You’ve always loved books and wanted to write, and you’re finally getting concrete ideas for the book you know you’ve got in you. Or you’ve just set up a blog. (Yes, blogging is writing.)

·       You pretend you’re looking for jobs online, but instead you’re doing research for a story or interesting things to post about.

·       You haven’t told a soul, but you’ve kind of written three chapters and sketched out a couple of scenes that might work into a novel.

·       You used to tune out when the old lady next door droned on about her tragic life. Now you eagerly note all the details for use in future fiction.

·       Your most titillating fantasies involve books in a Barnes and Noble window with your name on the cover.

Q. Yeah but… sez you. I want to know if I’m a REAL writer—can I make a living at it?

A. If you write and you’re not a wooden puppet carved by an old Italian guy named Gepetto, you’re a real writer. Most writers don’t make a living at it. Not creative writers, anyway. (Journalists are having a hard time of it these days, too.) Only a handful of superstars can quit their day jobs. Of course every one of us hopes to be a superstar some day, and nobody should give up the dream, but there’s no point in going all either/or.

Think of it like this:  

Q. How many people play golf?

A. How many of them are Tiger Woods?

Should everybody else give up golf?

Nobody starts at the top. Every star was a clueless beginner once. Learning takes time. We have to spend years—maybe decades—taking classes, studying how-to books and blogs, joining critique groups, and learning the ins and outs of the publishing business—the way a golfer works to perfect a swing. It’s a process. A really, really long process.

So before you give in to the I’m-not-really-a-writer blues, remember:

·       If your queries are coming back with form/silent rejections, you’re a writer.

·       If your WIP is refusing to come to a satisfactory end and you kind of hate your protagonist right now, you’re a writer.

·       If your neglected spouse suggests you take up something more lucrative and less time consuming, like making a model of the Taj Mahal out of toothpicks, you’re a writer.

·       If you’re questioning your worthiness to call yourself a writer—welcome to the club.

Don’t give up because you don’t have an agent yet, or your mother-in-law calls you a slacker who “sits around on your butt all day,” or your mechanic keeps asking why you don't have the money to replace that clunker.

You’re a writer.

Go write.