The worst questions to ask a writer
Plus the best gifts for anyone
Give the gift of storytelling
In case you hadn’t heard, experiences make people happier than material goods. In other words: doing stuff makes you happier than having stuff1.
And a pretty fun thing to do is take a live storytelling class—the next one starts January 7th at the Carrboro ArtsCenter. A class registration makes a super duper gift to a loved one. Also it makes a great gift to yourself. Everyone deserves creative joy.
Give the gift of a great book
I’ll make this quick, because nobody needs another list.
Here’s the book you should read and give to every person you know:
Easy Beauty by Chloé Cooper Jones.2
You’re welcome!
The worst questions to ask a writer
It’s that time of year, when writers pack bags and transport themselves to places where somebody who hasn’t seen them in a while will ask the question no writer wants to hear: Is your book done yet?
An informal survey3 revealed writers have avoided this question in unsurprisingly creative ways, including but not limited to:
faking a stomach ailment and running to the bathroom
bringing up politics
turning to a nearby toddler and asking in a goofy voice “Is YOUR book done yet?”
shouting “Great! I finished it and my agent Pippi Longstocking sold it at auction for eleventy pafillion dollars!”
cheerfully responding “I’m almost there—should be done by my 90th birthday.”
making a closed-mouth I don’t know sound while sticking a finger in the mashed potatoes
In her book Still Writing, Dani Shapiro—who has published a whole bunch of books—talks about another triggering question she has faced for decades:
Still writing?…I’ve been asked this by acquaintances and strangers, even by fans, readers of mine.
It always felt, to me, like a shameful thing that I was being asked this—that surely if I had written more books, won more awards, made more money, was better known, I wouldn’t be dealing with this question.
I’m pretty sure that the person asking it means no harm. It’s just an awkward stab at social chitchat…
The people who ask these dreaded questions aren’t trying to be assholes. The opposite actually: they’re trying to connect with you by asking about something they know you care about. And the fact that their attempts are clumsy, sometimes painful, is much, much more a function of the values of the culture we live in4 than it is a reflection of anything untoward in them.
Most of our days, our lives, we spend following scripts. A big, big script is: do stuff, a lot of it. Make lists, check things off. Keep going, going, going. Finish something, then get to the next thing.
The thing is, art doesn’t work like that. Art doesn’t bend to checklists or Gantt charts5. Art is beautifully nonlinear and often unpredictable, which makes it a tough topic to tackle in our goal-oriented universe.
When somebody asks if my book is done, I tell the truth. It’s not. It for sure is not. But I have much more to say than that.
I tell them what a good time I’m having. I say, “It’s really fun, writing a novel, writing anything really. I mean some days are hard for sure—I’ve had plenty of frustrating hours at the desk—but some days, it’s, like, so delightful6. I love getting to know my characters, seeing what they’ll do next, playing around with dialogue and conflict. The fact that I get to sit down almost every day of my life and play around with words and my imagination—I feel really lucky.”
In other words, I meet the goal-oriented question about the product with a broad answer about the process.
Writing is 99.99% process. There is a split-second when you’re done with something, and maybe an eye blink or two when, if you’re lucky, it gets published. But most of writing is everything else: the thrill of a new idea, the plunging into the story, the structure conundrums, the rounds of feedback, the reading aloud, the sheer delight of a good sentence, the pulling of hair, the cursing (oh, the cursing). The words piling up. The words getting deleted. The letting it rest, the diving back in. The infinite act of creating.
I bring up process because that’s all that writing is and because it makes for a much richer conversation. The others at the table might not be writers, but a lot of them make stuff in some form or another. They’re painters or knitters or bakers. They color with their kids or take dance lessons. They are exploring watercolors or landscape photography. If you start poking around, it turns out a lot of people have creative habits that look a lot like yours and mine. Which means you can ask them about what they make and how they make it, where they get their ideas or what techniques they’re trying out, or how they fit their creative habit into their busy schedule. Suddenly you’ve got a lively, enjoyable conversation on your hands.
And, if people have had enough wine and cake, that conversation might land on the deep joy and wonder that those who make stuff feel regularly, that is captured beautifully in Dani Shapiro’s imagined answer to the Still writing? question:
Here’s is what I would like to put down my fork and say: Yes, yes, I am. I will write until the day I die, or until I am robbed of my capacity to reason…
Writing saved my life. Writing has been my window—flung wide open to this magnificent, chaotic existence—my way of interpreting everything within my grasp. Writing has extended that grasp by pushing me beyond comfort, beyond safety, past my self-perceived limits. It has softened my heart and hardened my intellect. It has been a privilege. It has whipped my ass. It has burned into me a valuable clarity. It has made me think about suffering, randomness, good will, luck, memory, responsibility, and kindness, on a daily basis—whether I feel like it or not.
It has insisted that I grow up. That I evolve. It has pushed me to get better, to be better. It is my disease and my cure. It has allowed me not only to withstand the losses in my life but to alter those losses—to chip away at my own bewilderment until I find the pattern in it….
So yes. Yes. Still writing.
<mic drop>
I sincerely hope you get to such rich honesty in all your holiday catch-ups, but I know it doesn’t always work that way.
For those of you who wind up at a gathering whose vibe isn’t exactly ready for a Dead Poets–style manifesto on the creative life, who feel your best bet is to bolt from the table and find a closet or a basement to hide in, I have an important message:
We will be there. Me, Dani, and a ton of other writers who know exactly how you feel, who know the joy and anguish of stringing sentences together, who wouldn’t have it any other way.
We don’t care when your book will be done (and we’ll never ask). We only care that you’re still writing. That even in this wild world, you’re making your art, your unique thing that only you could make. Keep doing it, friend—keep writing!
This is true if your basic needs are met. If they are not, understandably having the means to acquire needed goods leads to more happiness. See Experiential or Material Purchases? Social Class Determines Purchase Happiness.
Did it come out this year? I don’t know. I read it this year. And it’s one of the best books I’ve ever read. Ever. Read it.
I’m a fiction writer. I made these up. But art imitates life and I’m sure all these have actually happened.
See: capitalism
I learned what a Gantt chart was during my time as an administrative manager at UNC and now I can never not know it. Welcome to the club.
https://www.apm.org.uk/resources/find-a-resource/gantt-chart/
Have you heard? Writing is joy.
Thank you, Julia, for your good-natured humor and never ending encouragement! I don’t care if your novel is ever done, I love to read anything you’ve written- like this! 💚💚💚
Yes to Easy Beauty, 1000x. It's a memoir that reads like a novel which adds to its already tremendous appeal. 2023 and I remember that because I'm be forever salty that it lost to Stay True!