Do you ever discover a new blog and get sucked into reading the archives, from beginning to end? I’ve been reading Miss Snark lately, which is not only not new, but is not even updated anymore. However, the archives are absolutely fascinating. I’ve been doing little else than reading them for the past week.

Miss Snark is an anonymous literary agent who answers questions about the business of publishing. Having a novel published has always been a dream of mine. As I’ve grown older and more cynical, I’m much more realistic about the slim possibility of being published, but that doesn’t make me any less fascinated with the industry. For a while, I was planning to get into publishing as a career after college. I’m just in love with books in all their stages of life, from the story idea through the metamorphosis into books on the shelf.

Even though I say publishing is just a dream, I find myself making notes as I read through Miss Snark’s archives. Even more importantly, the posts make me focus less on my own creative angst and more on the eventual reader of my writing. After all, a literary agent is just another reader looking for a new favorite, albeit a pickier reader with a lot of lousy writing to slog through. As I read through Miss Snark’s list of annoyances, like beginning a story with a description of the weather or taking chapters to get to the action, I’ve been taking a hard look at some of my stories and wondering just what a reader would make of them.

I realized that I’ve been writing only on instinct for a long time. Yes, I read books about writing and learn a great deal from them. I study the works of my favorites and analyze their techniques. But it’s been a long time since I’ve shown or even talked about my writing (other than this blog) to anyone except in the most general terms. So what I need to do is finish something, and show it to someone, and hold my breath until she or he tells me it’s terrible.

That’s the probable result. After all, even though I’ve been writing creatively for most of my life, my enthusiasm for it has come and gone in fits and starts. I’m a better writer than I was when I was 12, I’m sure, but I’m guessing I’m still a long way from engaging, thought-provoking, and all the other wonderful compliments I’d like to someday garner for my writing.

As a writer, I just can’t be a typical reader, much less with my own work. When I read for fun, I tend to pick at things that most readers would never notice. And yet, when I reread my own work, it’s hard to forget what I meant to say and focus on what I did say and whether it makes any sense. It’s almost like I’m standing outside in the fog, looking through a window into a vast library filled with readers. I want to see into their heads, understand what they like and why, but I can’t even hear what they’re saying to each other.

What it comes down to, yet again, is that I need to focus on writing, only writing. And when I’m done writing, I can revise, then edit. And then I can ask readers what they think, and probably begin the process over. After all, writing is in its essence, communication. If I’m not writing something that will touch someone, why am I writing? If I just want to see what I think, I can keep a journal and never show anyone. That’s fine for anyone who wants to write that way. But when I think of how ecstatic I am when I reach the crescendo of a wonderful book, I am reminded that I want to create that experience for someone else. It’s the gift I’d most like to give the world.

The best writers not only offer a window into the hearts of their characters and humanity as a whole, they offer their readers a chance to examine themselves and become better and wiser for the experience. Someday, I don’t want to be the one on the outside looking in. I want to be the one who can open the window for someone else.

If you enjoyed this post, you may want to subscribe to my RSS feed.