The Question of Compromise
Yesterday's discussion about synopses led to this exchange, which I thought might be useful for further exploration.
green_knight made a response to a line from fashionista_35's comment, I fall firmly in the shooting myself in the foot category in that I refuse to compromise.
by saying:
It's a continuum. I've looked at some of the things I've written on this topic (and am still working on my own post) and thought 'I sound just like every self-published writer whining about how the publishing industry does not understand my stories' and went back to work on that post some more ;-)
And I think the only way to square that particular circle is if we accept that our own judgement might not be good enough, and seek out the opinions of friends and editors and agents and reviewers to ensure that believing in a story, wanting to tell a particular story, not pandering to the market, finding one's own voice etc etc do not turn into self-aggrandizement.
Where does 'refusing to compromise' and 'being true to the story' become 'refusing editorial advice'? Right now, I'm working on a book I love - but it's also the (hopefully) most commercial idea of the ones that were floating around in my head. I think every writer - maybe every book - has a line where listening to people who know how to make it more marketable turns into 'no longer being true to the story' (aka 'producing hackwork') - which does not mean one should never consider such suggestions at all. (Nor should one always consider them.)
No answers. Just a lot of questions to ponder.
to which fashionista_35 replied:
You know, I've been traditionally published by NY houses. I also had a book canceled by a traditional NY publisher. Here's the kicker-- the published books were the ones that were fussed with the least-- one revision and done, while the canceled book was the one that was revised over and over, to the tune of four drafts, where I took the editorial suggestions and tried my best to work with them even if they didn't feel completely right for the story.
Where does 'refusing to compromise' and 'being true to the story' become 'refusing editorial advice'?
As amorphous a concept as it seems, the thing is, it has to feel right for the story. Those revisions I did on the canceled book, they didn't always feel right, but I was trying my best to adhere to the editorial suggestions while not compromising how I saw my story. The ultimate irony is that the editor herself was quite happy with the story, which eased my concerns over the changes I wasn't completely sure of-- the publisher, however, HATED the book. A lot. So go figure. Lesson learned. What the lesson is, exactly, I'm still trying to figure out. *g*
I've read some of her work, and loved it. From my perspective, fashionista_35 is dealing with difficult subjects and she is also breaking many rules. For writers who want to sell, dealing with difficult subjects and breaking rules is risky, as editors' parameters seem to roll back and forth along this tense, never-resolved axis between what they are sure will do well in the marketplace, and what might be new, and a big hit. "New" is so often difficult to describe: what one reader thinks new and daring, another reader will say, "Henry Miller did that, and better, back in 1963." Also, "new" can fall flat: readers don't like it. So someone else is going to have to try with that "new" subject again.
Or it can hit the bigtime.
Rules: when one goes back in literature, the rules of character behavior really stand out. At one point in Jane Austen's Emma, she makes brief but acid fun of a then-popular trope, of a heroine nobly refusing the hero in favor of her friend who is also in love with the hero, even though the friend is "unworthy" in some way. Female noble sacrifice was as "in" as utter innocence in emotional love, until Austen held that particular trope up to be as ridiculous an idea as it really is. You don't find it in much literature after Emma came out.
The rules in romance have gone through enormous sea change during the past thirty years. I remember the rigid requirements of Harlequin back in the early eighties: there had to be kissing closing chapter one, there had to be sex (but problems) by this chapter, etc etc. Romance has broken those bonds as it reinvents itself again and again. There are lines all over that feature this or that type of storyline. But still they are romances, there are certain things the characters do that don't emulate real life--because for the most part, readers read romance to escape from the sharp shards of real life. It feels good to relax into a book knowing that the problems won't be horrific, or if they are, all will be right in the end. When character behavior dips skillfully into reality a little more--pushing the rules--editors can get scared that the book, even if beautifully written, will tank. Market versus art.
Difficult subjects. There is a LOT of "I'm writing risky subjects" going on that I see. The problem, from my aged perspective, is not the risky subject itself--the lid seems to be off right down to YA level now--but handling it well. For some readers, the presence of a risky subject is enough; for a goodly set of them, a summary solution is almost required. Most of the "risk" I see in genre is resolved with simplistic solutions, sometimes even arbitrary ones. ("My solution is wise because my characters say it is.")
This is not a recent phenom. I used to see it back in the early days of Spock and slash fandom, when writers were working out all the various knots and kinks in Vulcan culture, inventing wildly, and when that wasn't enough inventing cultures based on the Vulcans, but pon far was the kernal. Actually, I think the kernal was rape, and the timing (seventies) had a lot to do with how lingering the impact of "Amok Time" was. How many stories did I read that basically boiled down to Oh well, in my culture, this is how they resolve rape, and everybody accepts it. Or incest. Or self-abuse in various forms. The stories presented a wide variety of quick fixes that some readers found wise and comforting because the subject was considered risky and daring, and others wrote in response, "This is a pretty bandaid over a still festering wound. What's all the self-congratulation about?" Could be that writing, and reading, these fandom stories was therapeutic as well as entertaining; it certainly gave vent to discussions of subjects that, for women of my generation, were considered forbidden territory--things no lady would ever talk about.
In fandom, you don't have to get past the gate keepers. What about the world of print? It was interesting to watch the launch of Jacqueline Carey's Kushiel series, which now has prompted a zillion echoes. Some thought the books incredibly daring and risky, others wrote long reviews saying variations of, "What's risky about long descriptions of torture-sex when the central character is never harmed, but magically fixes all problems just by letting herself be tortured?"
Some editor got the feeling that the time had come for this story--and was right. I wonder if Jacqueline Carey had to make several tries before she sold that first book--if she was advised to tone down her subject matter, or tell another story altogether, making her central character into a swordswoman, or something that would be more easily marketable.
Back to compromise, and green_knight's question. How can you tell when advice to change things is good advice, and when not? In refusing advice, how can one tell the difference between ego-massage and the high moral ground of protecting the integrity of one's art? I guess one can say that the writer who is constantly endeavoring to reach for some kind of truth through art, C.S. Lewis's "lies breathed through silver," is the one who is making the right choices, but what about the fact that so many people's truth varies so much? One has only to look at the recent election in this country to be reminded that "the right thing to do" can look different from various vantage points.
My feeling is that we can't be sure, but that doesn't excuse us from trying. We're a species of mimicry as well as imagination, we build our civilization by echo soundings as well as trial and error. Art is a mirror; it not only reflects our fascinating selves, but also the stars.
green_knight made a response to a line from fashionista_35's comment, I fall firmly in the shooting myself in the foot category in that I refuse to compromise.
by saying:
It's a continuum. I've looked at some of the things I've written on this topic (and am still working on my own post) and thought 'I sound just like every self-published writer whining about how the publishing industry does not understand my stories' and went back to work on that post some more ;-)
And I think the only way to square that particular circle is if we accept that our own judgement might not be good enough, and seek out the opinions of friends and editors and agents and reviewers to ensure that believing in a story, wanting to tell a particular story, not pandering to the market, finding one's own voice etc etc do not turn into self-aggrandizement.
Where does 'refusing to compromise' and 'being true to the story' become 'refusing editorial advice'? Right now, I'm working on a book I love - but it's also the (hopefully) most commercial idea of the ones that were floating around in my head. I think every writer - maybe every book - has a line where listening to people who know how to make it more marketable turns into 'no longer being true to the story' (aka 'producing hackwork') - which does not mean one should never consider such suggestions at all. (Nor should one always consider them.)
No answers. Just a lot of questions to ponder.
to which fashionista_35 replied:
You know, I've been traditionally published by NY houses. I also had a book canceled by a traditional NY publisher. Here's the kicker-- the published books were the ones that were fussed with the least-- one revision and done, while the canceled book was the one that was revised over and over, to the tune of four drafts, where I took the editorial suggestions and tried my best to work with them even if they didn't feel completely right for the story.
Where does 'refusing to compromise' and 'being true to the story' become 'refusing editorial advice'?
As amorphous a concept as it seems, the thing is, it has to feel right for the story. Those revisions I did on the canceled book, they didn't always feel right, but I was trying my best to adhere to the editorial suggestions while not compromising how I saw my story. The ultimate irony is that the editor herself was quite happy with the story, which eased my concerns over the changes I wasn't completely sure of-- the publisher, however, HATED the book. A lot. So go figure. Lesson learned. What the lesson is, exactly, I'm still trying to figure out. *g*
I've read some of her work, and loved it. From my perspective, fashionista_35 is dealing with difficult subjects and she is also breaking many rules. For writers who want to sell, dealing with difficult subjects and breaking rules is risky, as editors' parameters seem to roll back and forth along this tense, never-resolved axis between what they are sure will do well in the marketplace, and what might be new, and a big hit. "New" is so often difficult to describe: what one reader thinks new and daring, another reader will say, "Henry Miller did that, and better, back in 1963." Also, "new" can fall flat: readers don't like it. So someone else is going to have to try with that "new" subject again.
Or it can hit the bigtime.
Rules: when one goes back in literature, the rules of character behavior really stand out. At one point in Jane Austen's Emma, she makes brief but acid fun of a then-popular trope, of a heroine nobly refusing the hero in favor of her friend who is also in love with the hero, even though the friend is "unworthy" in some way. Female noble sacrifice was as "in" as utter innocence in emotional love, until Austen held that particular trope up to be as ridiculous an idea as it really is. You don't find it in much literature after Emma came out.
The rules in romance have gone through enormous sea change during the past thirty years. I remember the rigid requirements of Harlequin back in the early eighties: there had to be kissing closing chapter one, there had to be sex (but problems) by this chapter, etc etc. Romance has broken those bonds as it reinvents itself again and again. There are lines all over that feature this or that type of storyline. But still they are romances, there are certain things the characters do that don't emulate real life--because for the most part, readers read romance to escape from the sharp shards of real life. It feels good to relax into a book knowing that the problems won't be horrific, or if they are, all will be right in the end. When character behavior dips skillfully into reality a little more--pushing the rules--editors can get scared that the book, even if beautifully written, will tank. Market versus art.
Difficult subjects. There is a LOT of "I'm writing risky subjects" going on that I see. The problem, from my aged perspective, is not the risky subject itself--the lid seems to be off right down to YA level now--but handling it well. For some readers, the presence of a risky subject is enough; for a goodly set of them, a summary solution is almost required. Most of the "risk" I see in genre is resolved with simplistic solutions, sometimes even arbitrary ones. ("My solution is wise because my characters say it is.")
This is not a recent phenom. I used to see it back in the early days of Spock and slash fandom, when writers were working out all the various knots and kinks in Vulcan culture, inventing wildly, and when that wasn't enough inventing cultures based on the Vulcans, but pon far was the kernal. Actually, I think the kernal was rape, and the timing (seventies) had a lot to do with how lingering the impact of "Amok Time" was. How many stories did I read that basically boiled down to Oh well, in my culture, this is how they resolve rape, and everybody accepts it. Or incest. Or self-abuse in various forms. The stories presented a wide variety of quick fixes that some readers found wise and comforting because the subject was considered risky and daring, and others wrote in response, "This is a pretty bandaid over a still festering wound. What's all the self-congratulation about?" Could be that writing, and reading, these fandom stories was therapeutic as well as entertaining; it certainly gave vent to discussions of subjects that, for women of my generation, were considered forbidden territory--things no lady would ever talk about.
In fandom, you don't have to get past the gate keepers. What about the world of print? It was interesting to watch the launch of Jacqueline Carey's Kushiel series, which now has prompted a zillion echoes. Some thought the books incredibly daring and risky, others wrote long reviews saying variations of, "What's risky about long descriptions of torture-sex when the central character is never harmed, but magically fixes all problems just by letting herself be tortured?"
Some editor got the feeling that the time had come for this story--and was right. I wonder if Jacqueline Carey had to make several tries before she sold that first book--if she was advised to tone down her subject matter, or tell another story altogether, making her central character into a swordswoman, or something that would be more easily marketable.
Back to compromise, and green_knight's question. How can you tell when advice to change things is good advice, and when not? In refusing advice, how can one tell the difference between ego-massage and the high moral ground of protecting the integrity of one's art? I guess one can say that the writer who is constantly endeavoring to reach for some kind of truth through art, C.S. Lewis's "lies breathed through silver," is the one who is making the right choices, but what about the fact that so many people's truth varies so much? One has only to look at the recent election in this country to be reminded that "the right thing to do" can look different from various vantage points.
My feeling is that we can't be sure, but that doesn't excuse us from trying. We're a species of mimicry as well as imagination, we build our civilization by echo soundings as well as trial and error. Art is a mirror; it not only reflects our fascinating selves, but also the stars.