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Jay Posey

Archives for December 2012

The Worst Rejection Letter

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If you are in the hunt to do the Professional Writing thing, you will get rejection letters.  Or at least emails.

But more than likely the worst rejection letter you ever get won’t come from a publisher.  And it probably won’t be a letter. (Or an email.)

It will come from someone whose support you’re counting on, someone who  you expect to be on your side, someone you hope will be your biggest cheerleader.  Someone who with just one little encouraging word could make you believe that you really do have something beautiful or meaningful or honest and good to share with the world.

And that someone will tell you you’re making a terrible mistake, that you’re really not that special, that they’re so disappointed in you, that you should know better, that you shouldn’t get your hopes up because you probably won’t make it … you know, all the worst of what you’ve already been telling yourself.

The good news is, it doesn’t just happen to writers.  It happens to everyone everywhere who tries to make a Big Change.  It’s what happens when you decide to take a chance to do something different and risky and new and unexpected.  It’s what happens when you’re courageous.

The better news is, no matter where it comes from, there’s not a single rejection letter out there that can actually prevent you from accomplishing what you set out to do.  Only you can do that.

Don’t do that.  Be courageous.

Quantity vs. Quality

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Sometimes More is Better.  More Money, for example, or More Bacon.

But usually More is just lazy.  Because, let’s be honest (which I always am anyway, honestly, so there was really no need to say that), it’s easier to add More than it is to identify what’s really wrong and possibly, horror upon horrors, take something out that’s already there.

At worst, sometimes More is an excuse.  “Sure, it could be better, but look at HOW MUCH OF IT THERE IS!!!”  That 18-pound block of spicy cheese, for example.

The problem with More is it tends to dilute.  It muddies.  It distracts us from the thing we were trying so hard to accomplish or to communicate in the first place.

Great design is often more about subtracting than adding.  More about removing the things that just don’t quite fit, that don’t move us the direction we need to go, that don’t support or enhance the experience we’re trying to create.

Unfortunately, More is often our default measure of Value.  This book is 26 pages, and that one is 692.  Clearly the first isn’t worth $9.99.  This game takes 30 minutes to complete, and that one over 100 hours.  This salad fits in a bowl, and there’s a whole buffet over there.

But More is rarely an indication of anything other than volume.

So how long should that book be?  Long enough to tell the story, and no more.

Magic Tricks and Impostor Syndrome

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Magic isn’t magic to the magician, because he knows the trick.

More than that, he knows how many times he had to practice the trick to make it convincing.  And he knows all the other tricks he had to master before he could even attempt the one he’s performing now, to the amazement of his audience.

You don’t see many magicians wowing his audience, and then saying “It’s really not a big deal, because, you see, it’s just this mirror here, and the fishing line goes through here and over that pulley.  I know, it’s kind of stupid, I’m sorry, I’m ashamed I even showed it to you.”

But lots of very talented people do this to themselves all the time.  They aw-shucks themselves out of recognizing that they did something really great, or really meaningful, or really noteworthy … just because THEY were the ones that did it.

Sometimes when we achieve long-term goals, we look around and wonder why we ever thought this mountain peak was impressive when that one over there is so much taller.  Often, we reach the summit and then wonder if anyone noticed we’re not very good mountain climbers after all.  Or, you know, that we’re not very good at sticking with only one metaphor, since we started by talking about magicians, which as we all know make terrible mountain climbers, what with all the disappearing mountains and self-untying knots and unnecessary showmanship.

THERE I FIXED IT.

Anyway, the trick is to remember that the magician performs not for himself, but for his audience; and as long as they don’t know the trick, it really is magic.