My husband and I have been watching Project Runway this season. We have our favorite designers and our least favorite ones. Near the beginning of the season, the one we were betting against the most was this young man named Brandon who designed only menswear before the show.
In the first challenge, he’d been assigned a beautiful plus-sized model and tasked with creating a red carpet look for her, and he was very nervous about doing the look right. He decided to make an outfit with a cropped camouflage top and a pink bottom with an athletic stripe.
Throughout the episode, the young man expressed doubts about his ability. His model was worried. Some of the other designers thought his work was hideous. We pretty much agreed with them.
At the end, as you probably know, the designers with the highest and lowest scores stay onstage to be judged. Brandon was among them. We of course thought he had a low score, and would immediately be eliminated.
Nope.
The judges loved his red carpet look. They praised him for his originality, for knowing what was going in on the world, the athleisure trend. They loved all the elements others had doubted him for. He had one of the top scores. The only thing they wanted him to improve was his shyness, his hesitancy to talk about his work.
Brandon has continued with his very distinct aesthetic throughout the season. His clothes are often oversized, with lots of buckles and straps. And he’s won lots of challenges. At this writing, he is in the final four.
This reminds me of what happens in other forms of art. Of how easy it is to be dissuaded by the critical tongue of a peer or a teacher or a parent or a coach.
But does it matter if all those people hate your work?
It doesn’t matter one iota if my husband and I don’t like this guy’s clothes. The judges are the gatekeepers, the tastemakers. Those are the ones who matter. The people working in the ring, giving you access, helping you become as influential in that world as they are.
Brandon spoke about how he came from a small town outside of Salt Lake City and has wanted to be a designer since age 13. He talked briefly about the difficulties he had growing up. I wonder how if his anxious reluctance to talk about his work came from his upbringing, if the people around him always dismissed his taste and talent. How many times had he wanted to listen to those voices?
How many times have you been told by someone you’re not talented enough to “make it”? And what were the bona fides of that person? How do they align with your goals?
In the writing industry, there are lots of people who claim expertise, when their credits are slim to none. There are teachers who have no idea of what it takes to be published in today’s industry. There are students who will slam you for the sheer malicious pleasure of it. There are people who recognize talent and jealously try to dissuade it, as if someone else’s success could diminish their own.
Be careful about giving up your power to people who make no difference to your success.
Before you invest emotional effort into someone’s opinion, make sure that you respect the credentials of the person giving it. Does this person know what they’re talking about? What is the proof of their expertise? Consider these factors before you listen to any advice.
In fact, before you shell out any money for a class, you should also consider who’s teaching it. Does the instructor have the kind of publication record you hope to achieve?
And remember, if someone tells you that you lack talent, it could be that you’re like this Project Runway contestant—brilliant and unique, but misunderstood by people who don’t know what they’re talking about.
Has anyone ever told you to give up? How did you handle it?
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About Margaret Dilloway
Margaret Dilloway is the author of the new middle grade series MOMOTARO: XANDER AND THE LOST ISLAND OF MONSTERS (Disney Hyperion) and three women’s fiction novels. She lives in San Diego with her family and a big Goldendoodle named Gatsby. She teaches creative writing to middle schoolers and does developmental editing.
Actually, the problem for me is the opposite. I’ve got a couple of beta reader/friends who are talented, published authors–one in particular is gathering momentum and doing quite well for herself now. They tell me how talented I am, how good I am, how it’s only a matter of time, etc. I read those comments and it makes me feel good, except then I say, “Yeah, but….” As in, “Yeah, but I’m not as good as you think I am” and “Yeah, but how come I haven’t gotten that first novel published?” etc. Make no mistake, it’s nice to hear such positive things out of people I respect, but it’s hard to believe it when I’m still one of the Great Unpublished.
At the risk of hijacking the comments area this morning, may I jump in with a quick word?
Your situation is familiar. You’ve gone 90% of the way but offers remain elusive. Pros tell you you’re “almost there”, it’s “just a matter of time”. rejections say, “I didn’t connect” or “I didn’t love this as much as I wanted to.”
Frustrating.
What I often see in such situations (meaning, in such manuscripts) is not flaws that need “fixing”. Instead, it’s more a matter of what’s missing–what will enrich a novel and fulfill its entire potential. It’s easier to say what’s wrong than what might be more right.
Even pros–published authors, agents and editors–can have a hard time putting their finger on that. It’s easier to say, “almost there” or “didn’t connect”. But rejections don’t mean “no”, they mean “not yet”. Discover that extra 10%. Keep going and you will.
“…meaning, in such manuscripts) is not flaws that need “fixing”. Instead, it’s more a matter of what’s missing–what will enrich a novel and fulfill its entire potential. It’s easier to say what’s wrong than what might be more right.”
This is so true, and so frustrating. To fulfill the ‘entire potential’ requires being able to discern what isn’t there. Sometimes that’s in the white spaces of the writer’s intent, or it may be in having to redistill what the core story is about. What is this about? What do I want to share with the reader, make them ponder? I think sometimes it’s fear of really putting it on the page. The raw, the real. It takes guts. And heart. And trusted readers who are honest about where the momentum or interest waned. Unfortunately, no one can really tell you how to fix it, although a great BETA reader can brainstorm with you until you find that missing piece. More often for me, the feedback then requires that I go back to the beginning of why I needed to tell this story. What am I learning as I discover each piece, and how do I make those pieces fit together? So often, the other ‘voices’ we hear in our head are negative, like, ‘What makes you think you can do this’ or worse.
Thanks for your thoughts, Don.
Also, a wonderful blog Margaret. Than you.
And Jeff, you’re not alone. You can do this. We writers must hang together, to persevere, because we have stories to tell and a world of readers out there who need them, and this is a terrific community to come to for support.
I will bet that Brandon’s originality is backed up by something more mundane: He knows how to sew. He probably also knows cloth, patterns, fitting–all the technical side of clothing design and the tedium of its construction which the broadcast show edits out.
I will bet that Brandon knows his craft.
For fiction writers, I would distinguish between originality and the learned craft that makes original stories work. Even a prose style that flies in the face of literary norms is usually a reaction to–a rejection of–those norms. Revolutionaries understand what they are tearing down.
As a so-called gatekeeper, I can tell you that originality does not make publication more difficult. It boosts the odds. But what use is an original premise when a micro-tension in a manuscript is so low that you skim it? What good is an original voice when the speaker’s journey goes nowhere?
Brandon may succeed by being unique and true to his vision. He may defeat the stronger contestants. But if he does, it will be because he’s like David who slew Goliath–he knows how to hurl rocks with a slingshot and practiced ten thousand times before the battle.
Ignore the critics. Be yourself. Write the story that only you can write. Great advice, absolutely, but also make sure that the words on the page–every one of them–demand to be read. That’s craft.
What you’re describing is the path to mastery. When we begin, we’re blissfully ignorant. We have unconscious incompetence. In this phase, I pitched a book in which my main character did nothing but walk her dog and think about life. I thought it was great!
Phase two, conscious incompetence, came after my first in-person meeting with an agent. Gak. Horrible. Painful. Necessary.
My second novel is coming out next month, thanks to conscious competence. I can do it, but it’s a lot of work. I’m so looking forward to phase four, unconscious competence, or mastery. But I understand now, the only way to get there is hard work and time.
Good article, Margaret. We get too hung up on what people think, waffling about our talent, when what we need to do is roll up our sleeves.
My wife has a great saying about this sort of thing. If something someone said or did is bothering me, she says, “Don’t let them rent any space in your head.” It’s so perfect, because, after all, it’s my head – and it should only house my thoughts, my vision, my ideals, my goals. And I’m the proprietor, dammit!
I’ve begun to notice something lately, but your essay has crystallized my thinking. I’ve noticed that I’m not really writing for anyone else anymore. I used to. I wrote for beta-readers, critique partners, agents, – you name ’em, I wrote for ’em. But lately I’ve pretty much let go of the outcome. I’m not quite sure how I managed this… Maybe I’m just too tired to write for anyone else anymore. Maybe I just got tired of having renters (I do love my solitude).
Don’t get me wrong – I still have doubts. But when I’m pondering a story problem, or even the workings of the next scene, I am doing it for my characters, without much thought as to who might read it or when. It makes the doubts much easier to dismiss. If I have no renters to please, I have only to please myself. Not saying it’s easy, but it’s much more peaceful up here in my head (and there’s a lot less dirty laundry).
Thanks for the clarity, Margaret!
I love your response Vaughn!
My new book came out in June, and a few reviews complain they don’t like my protagonist. I wrote her raw and real, and I guess she’s not for everyone.
There were so many times while writing this novel, I nearly threw in the towel, convinced I wasn’t meant to be a writer. I think I love this book most because of how hard I had to work to finish it. My character’s journey and battles rivaled my own. If I had a chance to write her differently, I’m not convinced I would change a thing.
I hope I will always remember to write first for me.
Love your wife’s saying, V., thanks for sharing it. I let a few people rent that space and it’s work to evict such tenants. Comfortable even, to let them run amuck, especially if what they tell you aligns with your own internal fears.
I’m learning, though. This is yet another reason I write by hand at first, because it’s easier for me to feel I’m serving the story, the characters, and my vision. I know no one else will read my scrawls- perhaps pen and paper serve as my “No Trespassing” sign.
Like you, this post clarified a few things for me. I’m also reminded that I need to meditate daily. Meditation helps me reclaim my time, and space.
Love this, Vaughn. “Writing for me.” I crossed that line a decade ago, and like you, I’m not sure how or why, but maybe for the similar reason of it being too hard to constantly fret about how someone else felt about what I was writing. I love your wife (tho we haven’t met), and she’s right about not letting anyone else rent space in your head. She’s a wise woman. I think you should keep her. *grin*
My heavens, who hasn’t had someone along the way who says you don’t have what it takes. Sometimes I think those words might spark us on. This blog reminds me of Brenda Ueland’s (If You Want To Write) advice to writers when she identifies what she calls the “Great Murderer of the Imaginations … from a world of unceasing, unkind, dinky, prissy Criticalness.” She says that “everybody is talented, original, and has something to say.” That is, if he “tells the truth, if he speaks from himself.” Craft, of course, as Don points out, is essential, but writers cannot be afraid of themselves or of failures along the way. Walt Disney was told he had no good ideas and lacked imagination. Emily Dickinson wrote almost 2000 poems but only a dozen were published during her lifetime. We writers need to be fearless!
I like this post’s suggestion that we carefully consider the credentials of those we seek out but would add that choosing someone in tune with our particular creative vision is key. Years ago I was lucky to find a coach/mentor for my daughter, and it turned out that this person has since played a central role in her life. Shared vision, shared values. Along these lines, I remember having a not very effective creative writing teacher in college. He was apt to judge the students’ work by HIS vision of what art should be.
This is a really interesting discussion–because it gets to the heart of what so many writers struggle with: how to get strong feedback and advice on making our work stronger, while not letting those who can’t help us (for whatever reason) drive us off the rails.
It feels a precarious tight-rope to me–knowing the benefit of “strong” readers, and the danger of “weak” readers.
I’ve gone too far the other way, lately, not asking for enough help because so many critiques miss the target of, as Don said, how to haul your sorry-ass tired butt up the last 10% — to a story you can feel proud of.
The real goal is to be open and flexible to help from others, while, as Margaret suggested, holding it lightly. Using it wisely and selectively is easy to say, and so much harder to do.
But it’s a mistake not to ask for help – I’m learning this the hard way. Yet I hold firm to the belief that the hardest work –that last painful 10% — we have to find in ourselves. Others can give us ideas about it, but they can’t tell us how to do it.
We all have to design our own original athleisure wear.
Well said, Jodi.
A big fat YES to this post! I’ve spoken with so many writers who get countless opinions from people in their critique groups and then have no idea which way to turn because they think that every reader must be right! At a certain point, one has to – as Brandon did by pursuing his vision, even with all that anxiety – trust one’s own instincts, sense of craft, and wisdom as far their work is concerned. This can be tough when you’re still learning your craft so, IMHO, it’s much more important to find a mentor you can trust than eight (or a hundred) people who will read your work and offer opinions – and that might mean paying an editor with whom you’re vision is aligned which would be money very well spent.
What a lovely and encouraging post. I needed a little inspiration today. Thank you.
Actually, my biggest critic is myself. I get a lot of good feedback from others but need to beat back the critic in my own head. Am I the only one?
I have liked Brandon’s clothes from the very beginning. I think he has a unique consistent voice in his designs. Readers come with as many tastes and there are books and dress designs. There will be haters and there will be lovers. Somehow in all that noise, we have to decide what parts of our work we believe in and which parts we can improve without losing our voice.