Writing Blather

Neil Gaiman recently responded to another plaintive wail from another aspiring writer, and his advice both echoes and deviates from the usual writerly prescriptions:

It does help, to be a writer, to have the sort of crazed ego that doesn’t allow for failure. The best reaction to a rejection slip is a sort of wild-eyed madness, an evil grin, and sitting yourself in front of the keyboard muttering “Okay, you bastards. Try rejecting this!” and then writing something so unbelievably brilliant that all other writers will disembowel themselves with their pens upon reading it, because there’s nothing left to write. Because the rejection slips will arrive. And, if the books are published, then you can pretty much guarantee that bad reviews will be as well. And you’ll need to learn how to shrug and keep going. Or you stop, and get a real job.

I sniff love that man. Not only is he goddam brilliant, he’s cool about being goddam brilliant, and never comes off as anything more than a really nice guy who just happens to be one of the best storytellers in the history of creation. If that sounds like hyperbole, then you’ve obviously never heard a real hyperbole before: they sound like a cross between a phalanx of angry jackhammers and a gargling amplified opera singer on helium. Trust me, I know. I sat on one the other day. It wasn’t pretty.

Another writer who’s cool about being cool is Wil Wheaton, once reviled as Ensign Wesley Crusher on “Star Trek: The Next Generation”, now reborn as a likeable uber-geek who’s published a successful collection of short stories, and just recently landed a three-book deal with O’Reilly. Here’s what he has to say about his writing process:

I have this compulsion to write and create. This is good, because I’m supposed to run in a manuscript of Just A Geek RSN . . . but I’m really only good for about 2 hours a day. Longer than that, and my brain just churns out garbage. Sometimes and there’s value to garbage: It’s easier to rewrite garbage than fill up a blank page, but more often than not, the gargabage* is just garbage.

I just love that, because I have the same compulsion, and almost exactly the same limitations: I can’t do it for more than two hours a day, no matter what. It’s like my muse is hooked up to one of those old-school nicad cellphone rechargeable batteries, the ones that only lasted for a couple of calls before they conked out.

Of course, I’ve never seen my muse. Maybe she’s just got other things to do, or other would-be writers to inspire. Maybe she’s got a day job.

I wonder if she’s hot.