The Vice of Nice

What a magical thing it is, to be an aspiring author.

It truly takes a special kind of person: creative, generous, open-hearted to all the world’s miraculous possibilities. Not to mention a childlike wonder and innocence from which the pure song of the soul can be sung. The aspirer is so beautiful, so precious, so…

Vulnerable.

Because, regardless of his enthusiasm, all a budding writer knows about writing a book is that he enjoys reading them (I’m ignoring all those wannabe writers who don’t even bother to read books; those are a different story).

“I like this thing when professionals do it. Therefore, I am going to try my hand at it.” That’s the extent of everything a writer knows when he starts out. And far too many stop there. They know they want to be a writer, so they dive right in.

I suppose it’s only natural for writing to have such a low bar of entry, as it one of the few professions which requires no special tools or materials. The budding writer need not purchase expensive paints, canvases, pottery wheels, fly-tying kits, or even knitting needles.

But far too many people have convinced themselves that requiring no special tools also means that the job requires no special skills. That trips a lot of beginners up.

The result is a flood of bad books with dull writing—all of which could have been prevented by understanding that writing is a craft, just as much as any of the arts. Yet while no one thinks he can paint a masterpiece on his first go, lots of people think they can write one without any experience.

And, once again, I blame the lack of fancy tools. In other arts, the tools provide a necessary layer of intimidation. The brush in the hand of a first-time painter makes him uneasy. The idea that the artists he idolizes have brandished the same weapon fills him with a sense of unworthiness. And then there’s the paints! Which color does he start with? Is he looking for a carmine red or a rust red? A sky blue or an ocean blue? And oh why did he ever think he could start painting without learning color theory or brushwork!

Music, too, has a barrier. One must learn not only notes but keys! And then one must also figure out how to play those notes and keys on one of many instruments—all of which have a different control interface. Like painting, music has an intimidating gatekeeper to turn back all the looky-loos and hobbyists.

Now, you’d think writing would have a similar barrier. Shouldn’t picking one word out of millions be just as daunting as selecting a color of paint?

And yet, words are something which ordinary people use every day. Everyone is already familiar with stringing words together—it’s called talking. Can’t anyone who already knows how to talk immediately take up writing?

Why, yes. Yes, he can.

Except…how many people would you say are good at talking? Would you, for example, be so confident in your skill as a talker that you would seek payment for your talking? Paid speaking gigs are a thing in this world. And if you know anything about such gigs, you may have realized that all paid speakers are also authors.

Did you think that was a coincidence?

And many people do not make it as professional speakers. You think they let just anyone walk onto a stage and become the next Tony Robbins? That is not a thing in this world.

So before you go thinking that writing is something easy which anyone can do, remember that if anyone could do it, everyone would do it.

With that out of the way, lets talk about what it actually takes to make it as an author.

Ruthlessness and Cruelty

One professional writer rarely has much in common with another, but one shared quality that haunts the profession and overwhelms its adherents is a sense of judgmentalism.

Which is to say, writers are their own critics. And the better they are at criticizing, fault finding, and passing judgment on their own works, the better they are as writers. The author, after all, is not entitled to anyone’s time or attention. Yet even the judgment of the readers is too lenient. Readers will sometimes like a book which has not been worked into the best shape.

Readers are too merciful.

Which is why the best writers don’t write for readers. They don’t write with a sympathetic audience in mind. Better to anticipate how an apathetic crowd will receive the book, or—best of all—how a hateful enemy will treat it.

If the writer can produce a book whose merit must be acknowledged, even by someone looking to pick apart every flaw, then he has succeeded.

And, for better or for worse, that judgmental quality cannot be confined to his own writing. As the writer ascends to author—and more so as he becomes an author of quality and renown—that judgmentalism will spill over.

That Mean Ol’ Author

Every great author knows that greatness only begins once they stop being nice. Many such authors struggled for years, wondering why their writing never rose to the level of greatness until they finally bit the bullet and stopped being nice to themselves. For some, it comes as a shock when they learn that a ruthless demand for quality is what separates the names from the nobodies.

And because this lesson is so hard-earned, it becomes a core part of the author’s personality. It becomes instinct—much like the child who learns not to touch the hot stove only after experiencing it firsthand. Afterward, they become an evangelist for the hands-off-stove policy.

That’s why so many famous authors are known for being mean and dismissive. Amateurs who put their aspirational novel in front of Harlan Ellison would get an earful of harsh truth about what needs fixing. The man was an excellent writing teacher, but only to those would could handle his criticism.

And those professional authors who don’t seem mean only appear that way because they hide the meanness. They smile, they encourage, but they won’t even turn the first page of your aspirational novel. They’ll just wait until you’re out of the room and then throw it in the garbage before blocking your phone number.

I must stress this: even the famous authors which seem nice are actually mean. They just hide the meanness behind a false persona. Which is important because when one of the great authors does extend you the favor of critiquing your work, and you get back a manuscript drowning in red ink, that is their attempt to elevate you.

It is an act of love.

Cruelty Is Kindness

Among aspirers, many seek only for affirmation. They form knitting circles, sharing their manuscripts with a select group chosen for their ability to flatter one another. They want to be congratulated, patted on the head, and assured that they are just as good as all the top-shelf talent.

They never are. And they never become so.

Escaping from the land of make-believe requires the harshness of reality. There is no helping the ones who want the delusion. They have made their beds.

But those who still have a chance at achievement need something real. They don’t need a mommy who will put their book up on the refrigerator. They need a Harlan Ellison who will show them where the cracks are. And, often, the only way to sift the wheat from the chaff is to expose all of them to the harshness. The ones who ask for more have potential. The ones who slink away to bandage their egos were just pretending to want the prize.

Which brings us to me.

I Am Not Nice

Did you think I exempted myself when I said that authors only start writing great work when they stop being nice?

Looking back at my own experience, I can see how I have gotten better with each completed novel. And that progress has grown in strict proportion with how much I have shed the vice of nice. With each successive volume, I strive to be more honest with myself, more harsh in my assessment, more sparing with my praise.

And it has worked.

Despite this, many are surprised when I give them the same treatment I give myself. I am often asked to review books, and, almost as often, the ones asking the favor live to regret it. They object to my low scores and honest reviews—even demand that I change my assessment or apologize for my honesty.

One wonders why they take such pains. In this world there is no threat nor bribe big enough to sway me. I’d like to say it’s because I have too much integrity, but the reality is far more selfish: I want to keep myself in peak condition.

If I allow myself to be too generous in judging the works of others, that opens the door for me to start slacking in how I judge my own work. And that would be fatal fatal. It is better to be hated than to lose my hard-won edge.

I have earned my meanness through blood and toil. I cannot be convinced to relinquish it by some poor fool’s hurt feelings. Meanness is a mark of honor and professionalism. In a perfect world, every aspirer would come to realize that meanness is something to strive for.

Yet even in an imperfect world, the smart ones will eventually come to this same conclusion. You get to decide what kind of aspirer you are. You may not understand this lesson after one reading.

But you have my permission to read it again, as many times as you like.