Telling Was Only Part of It: A Declaration

 

Of course he would try to describe it to Bill when he got home, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to make Bill see it, the way Bill would have been able to make him see it if their positions had been reversed. Bill was good at reading and writing, but even at his age, George was wise enough to know that wasn’t the only reason why Bill got all A’s on his report cards, or why his teachers liked his compositions so well. Telling was only part of it. Bill was good at seeing.

~ It, Part I, Chapter 1: After the Flood (1957), by Stephen King

I was in middle school when I read my first Stephen King book. ‘Salem’s Lot. I wanted to read it much earlier, because in the book store, Dad would tap one of the rather benign covers and say, “Stephen King. Man, that’s some scaaaaary shit right there, boy.” (He does talk like this, I promise.) I wanted to know how it was scary, why it was scary, and I liked being scared in that way, despite being a perpetually petrified, Eddie Kaspbrakian hypochondriac of a child who was afraid of everything from the monster in my closet to the very real risk of falling down a storm drain, or witnessing, as my Dad put it when we were playing too rowdy in the living room, my brother falling into the fireplace and impaling his scrotum on the grate within. This was a real thing he said. And he really did tell me, when I was three or four, riding on his shoulders on a walk around the neighborhood, to steer clear of storm drains. To never get within a yard of them. We have home movie footage of a very tiny me repeating, over and over again, “Don’t go in that old sewer, you might get stuck.” My father has always worked in risk management for an insurance firm (Eddie Freaking Kaspbrak, ladies and gents), and I was the only first-grader I knew worried about getting caught in a wheat combine, or catching AIDs from a needle shoved in a grapefruit. Every scary movie, every OSHA horror-story, was catalogued neatly and indelibly in my brain, when other kids might have brushed off a parent’s worry as superfluous. I took it to heart. Hello, lifelong anxiety.

I think it’s obvious, then, why my mom wanted to keep me away from King as long as possible, despite their free-rein policy when it came to other books. I could mostly read whatever I wanted, and in middle school, finally, I got to read ‘Salem’s Lot.

It was my summer reading pick for a first-week-back-at-school project, and I wish now I could see my teacher’s face when the other kids came in with The Babysitter’s Club and I came in with an adult horror doorstop, but all I remember is acing that paper. And though the finer details are fuzzy enough that I think it might be time for a reread once I finish my It reread, the thing I remember most about that book, that reading experience, was getting halfway down the first page, and thinking, Oh. I’m home. Because no matter what horrors awaited on the pages ahead, no matter how gruesome or macabre or nightmare-triggering the story of Jerusalem’s Lot might prove, I knew immediately that Stephen King was someone who could see, and who, in doing so, could make me feel seen. It didn’t matter that he and I were strangers, a man penning scary stories and a sixth-grade girl sitting in the back seat of a moving Oldsmobile; it didn’t matter that we might not get along in real life, or have nothing in common or perhaps even detest one another. Reading his book, I knew that Stephen King’s imagination worked in the same cursive loops and curls that mine did. He wasn’t simply telling a story, but seeing the story, and showing it to me, helping me see it in all its fine-grain details, in the exact way I wanted to see it.

When you are someone who thinks in carefully-blocked Hollywood shots, and close-ups, and who thinks in words, great, languidly-unspooling ribbons of words, soft and satiny inside your mind, talismans to rub when you’re at your most anxious, it is an astonishing and precious thing to bump up against an imagination that works at the same pace and particularity as your own.

I talk often and at length about the authors who’ve most inspired and influenced me, and I would have written stories no matter what…but I wouldn’t have been brave enough to write the way I wanted to if not for Stephen King. He is, in that respect, the greatest writing inspiration of my life. 

And as a reader, encountering Eddie was the first time I’d witnessed a character deal with so many of my childhood, and, let’s face it, persisting adult anxieties and phobias. Romance authors didn’t write characters like Eddie because there was no way to spin hypochondria into sexiness. Science fiction and action authors didn’t want to dilute a character’s public appeal in that way. Maybe that was why I loved and latched onto Eddie right away, because I am him, in so many ways. And maybe that’s why, like Eddie, Richie is my favorite character.

One of the things it took me a long time to understand was that the reason my dad said such anxiety-inducing things, voiced such extreme cautions when I was a child, was because he was anxious, just as I was. One of the things that I think those without anxiety don’t understand is that anxiety is not blind, stupid panic. And just because your thoughts are a sometimes-endless cycle of fear responses, it doesn’t mean that you can’t also be brave. It doesn’t mean that you can’t be sure of things. All that relentless, yammering Kasprak brain energy can be sharpened; can be honed; can be directed. You can hammer it out into metal, into rusted iron; you can go for the throat with it. It kills monsters, if you believe it does.

That’s what writing is for me. It’s structure, it’s order, it’s harnessing my too-busy brain in a meticulous, purposeful way that makes the whole world make sense. I’m brave when I work with horses, but I’m never braver than when I’m at the word processor, and just like Horton hearing those Whos, I say what I mean, and I mean what I say. Every angle, every viewpoint, every eyebrow flick and sudden slant of a sunbeam has been carefully selected and arranged. Each sentence has been committed to paper not because of focus group consensus, or mass appeal, or the desire to fit in with the cool kids. I storyboard, block, light, check cameras, dab on a little fake blood, shoot in my head, and then write it down, and that’s the scene. That’s my vision. And whether it was a quiet, kitchen table conversation, or a shootout, or an interrogation, or a werewolf three-way in a brothel, none of it was throwaway filler. Every head tilt and jeering quip was telling the readers something about the characters in that scene, if their eyes were open to see it.

If Grayface, and Nonny, and Cartoon Avatar, and Cutiepie32 on Goodreads found it tasteless, or unnecessary, or filler, or that it “needed editing,” then that’s just tough titty. Because there is absolutely nothing about Goodreads trolls and wannabe editors trying to drum up business that can shake the cinderblock and rebar foundations of my imagination. Of my intention, each time I sit down to write. My anxieties are many, and varied, and lie deep along the bone, but they are old growths, calcified and familiar, and the unproofread rantings of a stranger on the internet about my proofreading habits are not something that can harm me. Oh, they can try to spook would-be readers. “She needs an editor!” “It’s not edited at all!” “I wish she’d hire an editor!” “Did you hear she uses a computer program to edit?” They’re trying to affect my business, sure. But their minds work in ways so violently different from mine that they think their tactics will work, and that is so unbelievably laughable. They think they can change the way I see my own imagination; that the next time I start a new paragraph, I’ll pause. And I’ll maybe, finally return one of those emails. Yes, please, Internet Stranger, can you help me catch errors? Can you help me with my scene transitions? Can you help me make Amelia more likable? And Aidan more mature?

You could start, Internet Stranger, by spelling Aidan’s name right. Beep beep.

When you write, there’s nothing quite as special as having a reader quote your own book back to you. Having them tell you which parts made them laugh or tear up. Someone said that the cheating at Monopoly scene in Nothing More reminded her of playing cards with a lost relative, and that’s one of those wondrous kernels of writerly bliss, like someone handed me a nugget of splendid Belgian chocolate, or offered a tight hug at the end of a long day. That’s one of those meeting of the imaginations that I experience when I read Stephen King, and that stuff is author crack, let me tell you. It’s addictive.

But sometime in early 2020, I stopped checking my author email as often, and more or less stopped responding, because that place is a real shitshow, lemme tell ya. On one hand, there’s a silver lining to that shitshow. When I first started publishing, I only ever got pleasant emails. When the haters and users started seeping through the cracks like backed-up sewage, I knew I’d earned at least a little notoriety. Nobody bothers someone who sells nothing. So even if I’m not well-known, and even if paying the bills still gives me hives, some people have heard of me, and some of them don’t like that they’ve heard of me. Some people are going to act like paying $3.99 for a 500 page book they didn’t care for is tantamount to car-jacking them at gunpoint, and it ruined their lives, and their marriages, and I owe them for the resultant therapy.

And then some people are going to see me as a business opportunity. As a naïve sucker, essentially.

My inbox is full of passive-aggressive emails from readers who would like me to pay them to beta, proofread, and edit my books. Seriously, I could feature an email a day, like that Asshole Cat of the Week meme, but, like, a bulletin board to pin up the truly delicious gaslighting attempts. The thing about these Wishful Editors is that there aren’t nearly as many of them as the number of emails would suggest. The other thing about them, the most eyeroll-inducing thing, is that they think there’s a direct line between my turnip truck fall and publishing my first book. That I am, how shall I say?...stupid. That I am incapable of recognizing the speech patterns that repeat in the emails and sock puppet reviews.

That’s the other other thing: the sock puppets.

Wishful Editors work like this: they or a colleague or two use several GR sock puppet accounts to leave reviews that echo the same sentiment, in this instance, their sometimes-angry, sometimes-regretful assertion that my books need further editing. That they could have been five stars (or starts, as one “professional proofreader” stated) if only I’d hire someone to help me. The tone switches up, review to review, but the wording is near-identical. And then ding! The email comes. There is truly only one version of this email. The “and”s and “but”s and misplaced commas vary from email to email, but the tone is the same, the offer the same, the diction the same, down to the inexplicable “lol”s and excessive use of exclamation points and O’s in love.

OMG, I loooooooooove your work! You are such a talented author! Lol! [The flattery continues for another 50-100 words here]

Now, please don’t take this the wrong way, because you are soooo good, and I loooove your books so much, but I’ve noticed other reviewers complaining about the typos, missed words, and errors etc,.[sic] [there is always a comma at the end of “etc.” instead of a period, for some ungodly reason] I wanted to ask, do you have a beta reader? Lol. Because I beta and proofread for a lot of other authors and they say it really helps! Lol. [Do these individuals know what “lol” means? Or is it an unconscious habit like me saying “fuck” five times per sentence?] I of course wouldn’t charge for this at all, but I really love helping my favorite authors make their books better! I can fix spelling and punctuation, and other stuff, like awkward sentences. Your books are soooo amazing and they deserve to be seen by more people! Of course I don’t mind the little errors – I can read right past them and pretend they’re not there – but since so many people have mentioned them, I wanted to offer my help. Let me know what you think! Looking forward to hearing from you.

I don’t recall off the top of my head how many times I’ve received this exact email from a multitude of different addresses. As I said, there are small differences, but the high-school-girl stretching-out of vowels is always there. Aidan’s name is inevitably spelled with an “E” for the Wishful Editors pretending to be Dartmoor fans (some are Drake or SoR fans instead). Each time, the Wishful Editor stresses that she of course isn’t bothered by all my mistakes, not even the “problematic characterization,” but that others are, and she’s only trying to help. It always starts with typos, but then progresses into the promise of sentence structure help. Each time, smoke is blown up my ass before I get the digital equivalent of the pouty poor baby face and a “sincere” offer of help.

Dear Reader, sometimes I wish I had indeed fallen off that turnip truck. Then perhaps I might know peace.

Alas.

This is how they do it, these Wishful Editors. They either hope I’ll be so thankful to have their brilliance bestowed upon me that I will indeed pay them; or they’re an author hoping to gaslight me straight into hanging up the old word processor for good; or they’re a frustrated non-writer who would rather manipulate an author into bringing their ideas to life rather than taking a Freshman level English course to learn how to set pen to page themselves. But whoever they are, and whatever they ultimately want to get out of a potential collaboration, their methods are the same. Create a problem: in this case, dissatisfied readers upset with my “lack of editing.” And then present themselves as the solution: the brilliant, professional alpha/beta/proofer/editor/developmental genius here to polish my rough turd of a story into a diamond. They insult me just enough in the hopes I’ll let self-doubt creep in, and then offer their solutions as bait.

“Hey, Georgie, don’t you want your boat back?”

Here I am splashing along in my little yellow raincoat, and they are the voice echoing out of the storm drain. Promising popcorn and balloons. The yellow eyes in the dark.

But I was much younger than Georgie Denbrough when I learned not to go into that old sewer. You might get stuck. The Internet is teeming with predators of all kinds. I think there are quite a lot of brand-new self-pubbed authors who are understandably nervous and uncertain, and these sorts of tactics work on them. Oh no, someone thinks their book is bad? Gosh, thank goodness this benevolent genius happened along to help!

It would be so easy to fall into the trap of buying reviews, buying readers, spending thousands of dollars on “help” and “influence” that isn’t actually helpful at all, because someone with a cartoon avatar trying to get her side hustle on doesn’t have any sway in the business. You keep paying, and you keep praying, and one day you turn around and realize those influencers you paid to help you had a bunch of bought followers, zero creative or technical expertise, and that you’re so deep in the hole, and your confidence so shriveled, that you can’t recover, and you stop writing altogether.

There are excellent editors and proofreaders out there, but those gaslighters in your inbox? Sewer clowns. Underhanded sewer clowns hoping to flatter and flay you with enough tact to draw you down, down, down, so they can take what they want from you, whatever that may prove.

Ask yourself: why should any author believe the word of an Internet Stranger? Why should I? Who are they? What’s their background? What sort of literature have they studied? What are their qualifications? Saying “trust me” and “I’m a professional” wouldn’t work on a resume, and they don’t work in an unsolicited email.

I know why there are people in the book community who want to turn being a reader into a way to make money, but in a realistic sense, you can’t trust a screen name and a dog photo to have your best interests at heart. That’s the practical, bare bones side of things. Trust is earned. Skills need to be exhibited, track records proven, that sort of thing.

But for me? Personally? Even if I was in the market for a new editor – which I’m not – I would never choose anyone who used these sorts of tactics. Editing a book is not a bloodless, data entry sort of job; it requires collaboration, a united vision, and lots and lots of trust on the part of author and editor. The author must be able to trust that the editor’s imagination is bumping up against her own; that they’re running on parallel tracks, and the view ahead is the same. That the editor sees what the author sees. That is essential.

What I said before about discovering Stephen King’s books, about his words, the way he laid each down, the way he unspooled them like satin ribbon, that applies in this instance. When someone uses alternate accounts to criticize me, even lie about me, and then tries to gaslight me in an email, that proves immediately and irrevocably that her brain and my brain don’t begin to align. That person may have read my books, but she did not see my books, and she doesn’t see me. Because if she saw me, really, truly crossed the threshold of my imagination, and saw the vaulted, frescoed ceilings overhead, and heard the distant choral harmonies competing with yet another playthrough of the entire Back in Black album, she would understand that my purpose, my passion, my fervor and, above all, my confidence in my words, is not something she can crack. It can’t be swayed. It can’t be lured down a dark storm drain.

Anyone who thinks she can maneuver me into doubting myself and my work doesn’t understand a single thing about me. Not as a person, and certainly not as an artist. When I say that I’m anxious, I mean that I check the expiration date on the ground beef seven times and then smell it before I drop it in the pan. But my work is inviolate. My imagination is girded up with concrete and steel, and its gilded edges glitter with jewels, and I always say what I mean and mean what I say. No clown can touch that, not for all the popcorn and balloons in the world.

The sad part, for readers, is that I know attempts such as the ones I’ve described have had the power, at times, to ward off potential readers, and those potential readers might have really loved my books, if not for clownish efforts. The clowns want to make me smaller, they want to cut me off from those whose imaginations might run in the same loops and whirls as mine; they want to crush me in order to make themselves stronger.

But that’s not the way it works in these sorts of stories. For every Georgie there is a Bill. Or an Eddie, I suppose, in my case.

Beep beep.

I feel certain that the people who needed to read this post checked out about two-thousand words ago, off to scream on Twitter or Goodreads about what a bully I am, then drop some nasty reviews. But if you did read all the way through, I not only appreciate it greatly, but I also hope, humbly, that over the past decade, and the past forty books, you’ve brushed up against some part of my imagination that made you feel seen and heard. I would always write, but readers like you make this twisted publishing game rewarding beyond all tell.

Thanks, guys, as always.

xx

(Final note: any professional proofreaders and editors hoping to work with indie authors should probably not take any job interview advice from Pennywise the Dancing Clown.)