The Sub-Industry of Dreams
If I was a multi-millionaire entrepreneur, I wouldn’t be filming seminars on how to get rich quick. I’d be drinking Columbian coffee on a Columbian mountain top. Likewise, if I was a successful author, I wouldn’t be hosting weekly workshops on how to “make it.”
Ok, perhaps the cases above aren’t completely alike. There does seem to be a charitable bent to some writers that triggers the urge to give back. I suppose a high number of authors have spent chunks of their lives struggling to get their work noticed—not to mention, honing their abilities to articulate that struggle—so why not pass on some of that knowledge to the next crop coming through?
Names like Kurt Vonnegut, David Foster Wallace, Neil Gaiman and George Saunders come to mind. If you’re willing to hunt, you can find a wealth of non-cookie-cutter knowledge produced by people like this, backed up by the authority of their work.
The point I’m trying to make here isn’t concerned with the best sellers, or even the not-very-high sellers. It’s concerned with the tier below this (maybe more than one tier actually).
I’m talking about the struggling writers who have invested in a dream, accumulated more theory than any person should have in their head. The people who have perhaps even had a few things published, but haven’t quite earned enough to support themselves. I’m talking about the ones who have gone so far down this road that they don’t have any other skills to turn to. There are no regular jobs to pivot towards. Writing is their thing and that thing doesn’t pay.
Let’s rewind back to a year ago when I first moved over to London. I was bloodshot eyed and had aeroplane food in my tail, ready to invest my time and attention to all things writing. I’d allocated part of my budget towards “learning resources.” Ready to approach the theory of writing with a beginner’s mind, willing to spend a bit more money than I’d usually be comfortable with, if I needed to. That’s what I was here for. It was an investment.
In the beginning I went to a lot of workshops. Usually they were themed, “writing suspense, POV masterclass, advanced story-telling,” etc. These were fine, though I did get the sense that a lot of the info was probably obtainable online for free. That was ok with me at the time mind you—there’s something to be said for the added concentration gained by being there in person.
I went along to a couple of paid writers’ groups (which didn’t allow first timers to read—a big red flag) before I realised, “oh, the benefit of this doesn’t actually come from the thirty seconds of feedback you get at the end. Its function lies in forcing yourself to write something readable.” Which resulted in me seeking out free versions of the same thing.
Some of my biggest money wasters were the hour long masterclasses with broad topics like “story structure,” which tended to take on a Q & A format rather than any pre-set agenda. “So, what do you guys want to know about story structure?” After sitting through my second one of these, dealing with the umming and ahhhing of the person talking the class, seeing them struggle not to look at their watch, I realised, “Oh, you’re just winging it here.”
One of my favourites was a seminar series on “How to get Published,” run by somebody who’s never been published…
But now I’m just venting.
My point is, there is a sub-industry built around the idea of being a writer that doesn’t have a whole lot to do with actually helping people get better at writing.
They’re feeding off the dream.
It makes sense. For a lot of people, becoming an author is in the same realm as being a rockstar or a pro-athlete.
The dream doesn’t necessarily have much to do with the day to day of typing out a word count, coming up with catchy riffs or dragging yourself along to the training room to drill the gameplan for tonight’s match, it’s about the image. The romantic aspects.
This is why those writers’ retreats in Greece often manage to draw a sellout crowd. It’s not that people believe sitting in a bungalow on the beach is going to improve their ability to write dialogue. It’s a chance for them to play make believe for a week or so. When the retreat leaders gather you in that group circle in the morning and cast you out, “now go and write!” you’ve got a brief moment—years before you’ve earned it—where you get to tell yourself, “I’m a real writer.” People are willing to pay thousands for that experience.
So, I wasted a bit of money learning this lesson. (no retreats thankfully, but plenty of workshops) Figuring out that the powerlifting gym is just as good (if not better than) your Les Mills’ or Virgin Actives. I’m fine with that now that I’ve parsed out the difference. It just would have been nice to know earlier.
And this isn’t to say that there’s zero value in those things. Sure, they offer the odd gem of knowledge or even inspirations, that might allow you to skip past some of your start-up inertia. Rich Dad Poor Dad taught me the difference between an asset and a liability in terms that I still apply to this day. Sure, It didn’t lead me to a real estate empire, but it did jumpstart me into buying property before I otherwise would have. There is something to be said for dipping into fantasy every now and then, the trick is to be conscious when you’re doing it.
For anyone with similar goals to me, all I would recommend is: exhaust the resources you’ve already got before opening up your wallet. Form the habit of turning up every day. Writing to a wordcount. Getting projects finished. Once you get to that point, look for the weak spots in your work, seek feedback, pin down the bits that need improvement. And even once you’ve identified those things, shop around a bit. See if there are any free options that will cover the same ground as that shiny masterclass that’s been calling you.
Alright, that’s all the advice for today from this unpublished writer.
