It’s become cliché for the writer to bemoan the oft-asked question of Where do you get your ideas? Writers don’t like to answer that question, I guess because it doesn’t have an answer … or at least not one that can be expressed easily with words, verbal or written.
For the unpublished writer the question we hate to hear is What are you going to do if you don’t get published? It’s a reasonable question, but, boy, it sure can take the wind out of your sails. It’s a question that can be taken in one of two ways and neither one is especially pleasant. The really bad one suggests that your dreams of writing are just that — dreams — and while it might be fun to entertain such lofty notions, you better have a backup plan because, let’s face it, kid, it probably ain’t gonna happen.
It’s the one question struggling writers hate to hear because, in addition to being an insult hiding behind a piece of advice, it leads to that other favorite: How many writers actually make enough to get by, anyway? It’s another good question. How many people worldwide actually make a living from writing books? Ten? Twenty? Fifty? One hundred? I don’t know, and I’m not so sure I want to know.
Regardless of how many novelists are making a living from their craft, those of us who are still struggling need to believe that it can happen. It’s the old reach-for-the-stars bit, I know, but it’s the thing that keeps most of us motivated when we receive our rejection letters or, in some cases, no letters at all. We have to believe that we’re doing it for some reason. That if we try hard enough and long enough it will happen. I guess there is a certain amount of self-delusion involved, but I like to think it’s going toward a good cause.
So how should one deal with this question should it come up? Well, the simplest solution would be to tell the person to go fuck themselves, but that’s not exactly the polite approach. And if the person is bigger than you, they might end up giving you some facial reconstruction, totally gratis.
So what do I do? Well, I’ve never been asked the question myself, though I dread the thought of it. It hangs over my head, not like the Sword of Damocles but rather like one of Wile E. Coyote’s 1000-ton Acme anvils, waiting to conk me a good one when I least expect it.
If someone does try to stick it to you, I would thank them politely for their interest in your work and then use those writerly skills to cleverly turn the conversation onto another subject. The hockey strike, maybe? Or The Bachelorette?
Or you could make like the Roadrunner and stick your tongue out at the offending questioner and zip away before the anvil drops.
Meep-meep.
Ian