Mild, Mild Horses
On taking risks in writing (and in life)
What’s On My Mind: Risky Business
Hello from the airport, again.
Earlier this month, I was in Baltimore for the Association of Writers & Writing Programs (AWP) conference. I’d never been to Baltimore before. Prior to this trip, my impressions of the city were mostly from The Wire and Hairspray. I am pleased to report I did not stumble into any massive sting operations, and somewhat disappointed to report that I also did not wind up pulled into any full-scale musical numbers.
Anyway! I wrote an entire essay about my AWP trip. The awesome panels, some less-awesome publishing world insights, the crowded hallways, my visit to Poe’s grave, etc.
Then I re-read the piece and yawned. The essay was a mildly thoughtful, mildly funny, mildly self-deprecating recap of a conference. It was readable, but not riveting. In the publishing world, there’s another word for that kind of mild writing: safe.
And I’ve been wondering lately if maybe my writing is too safe.
With a few of my previous novel submissions, and one of my current projects, I’ve gotten feedback that my writing “feels a little restrained” or, as one editor put it, “not loud enough.” In other words, too safe.
When I got to the airport today, I started reading Jeanette McCurdy’s Half His Age. This is the debut novel by the author/former child star whose runaway-bestseller memoir was called I’m Glad My Mom Died, which I read last year. Half His Age opens with a graphic sex scene and somehow continues to skyrocket up from there on the “make sure my kid isn’t reading this over my shoulder” scale. I’m Glad My Mom Died lived up to its premise, too: the book is about the author’s relief over her real-life mother’s demise. She offers up load after load of family dirty laundry.
No one’s going to call her books restrained, quiet, or safe.
Sex sells, if it bleeds it leads, there’s value in voyeurism… none of this is exactly headline news. Nor is the expectation that writers must bare their souls revelatory. As Ernest Hemingway said: “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”
See? Easy.
Over the years, I’ve hit the brakes on plenty of projects because they felt too close to the bone. Fiction, nonfiction, plays. There are plenty of reasons to slow down; to steer away from material that might be more difficult—and I don’t think it’s always been the wrong decision. Not every project needs to grab the reader by the throat.
But some should. And I don’t think my real question has been “can readers handle it?”— the truth is, I’ve been gun shy. I do think my stageplays are often braver than my novels. But maybe it’s time for my books to take bigger swings.
Great art rarely centers innocuous things—okay, well, sometimes it does. But memoirs don’t tend to be about happy childhoods. Novels that sell like hotcakes and get optioned for television shows most often sizzle with fierce manipulation, sex, violence, intensity. No one sings about mild, mild horses. (Except for you. You’ve been humming it since you read the title of this essay, haven’t you. Admit it!!)
Clearly, questions about risk-aversion apply not only to writing, but also to life. I’ve come to realize that sometimes it’s not just about what we’re avoiding, but why we’re avoiding it. Are we worried about being misunderstood? Hurting someone else’s feelings? Opening ourselves to harm? Getting it wrong?
All of those are valid fears… and they’re also things that are bound to happen in life, no matter how hard we try to avoid all risk. So, yes. There is inherent risk in being more vulnerable, more unapologetic, more direct. But there’s also risk in being walled-off, overly apologetic, and evasive. With that in mind, here are some questions for all of y’all (and for myself):
If there’s something you’re avoiding, why are you avoiding it? Is the reasoning sound, or worth pushing back on?
Are there places in your life where you can be a little riskier?
Without abandoning your voice, your principles, your inherent safety… what’s one thing you can do that feels a little less safe but might ultimately yield something you couldn’t otherwise achieve?
Don’t do what feels wrong.
Don’t avoid what feels scary… but right.
(PS In his affirmation book Gmorning, Gnight!: Little Pep Talks for Me & You, living legend Lin Manuel Miranda shared that he often writes what HE needs to hear, figuring someone else might need to hear it, too. That’s how I feel about this essay. And also HEY! You’re doing great! x)
What’s On My Bedside Table (Or In My Earphones): The Correspondent by Virginia Evans
Okay, remember everything I was just saying about how no one wants a slow burn, fast pace and hot sex is what sells, we all need to go big or go home, blah blah blah? Forget I said any of that. This book goes all the way in the other direction and it is phenomenal.
The Correspondent is wryly funny, warm, rarely risque, and entirely epistolary. That’s right. Every chapter is comprised of a letter or email, with no extra padding. Just. Correspondence. And it is so, so good. I don’t want to say anything other than this one deserves all the accolades it’s getting and I really wish I could get a book like this out into the world myself.
Note (see what I did there?): This is one I listened to, because audiobooks are books, and the narration cast is just phenomenal.
Lagniappe: A Dude I Love And A Book I Wanted To (But Didn’t)
Here’s where the paywall begins!
