by Lawrence F. Farrar
It takes patience to be a writer. Of course, it takes imagination, a way with words, familiarity with syntax and grammar, and lots more. But it also takes patience, an ability to hang in there and to endure the vagaries of the writing life. Whether defined as virtue or necessity, it doesn’t matter: if you have it, it works to your advantage; if you don’t, life is not always beautiful. It has something to do with emotional well-being.
Patience is surely required when the writer’s committed engagement (“Shut the door, I’m busy”) puzzles, intrigues, enamors, irritates, or in other ways draws the attention of family members, friends, or others not so engaged.
Whether their advice is solicited or unsolicited, be patient with advice givers. They mean well, at least most of the time. Be it from an editor, agent, or helpful neighbor, pay heed to their words, but respond with care. Hear them out, consider their suggestions, but take your time. The decision is yours; it’s your piece.
And above all, be patient with fellow writers. This appears to be a key requirement when considering the work of others in writers’ groups. While participants ramble on about point of view or about whether the lead character is appealing—or appalling—hold your fire. When your turn to speak comes around, be constructive, be encouraging—even if you must suppress your true feelings. Be patient. Curb the rapier instinct—at least try. Your fellows will likely demonstrate reciprocal patience when examining your work. Patience rendered, patience received. Might not help your writing, but maybe you’ll feel better.
When the how-to manuals urge the aspiring writer to put a finished piece in a drawer for a time and then revisit it before submission, they are, in effect, counseling patience. Take your time. You’ll have a better product.
Writers spend a lot of time writing. But in one way or another, they also spend a lot of time waiting around, a less than uplifting experience, even for those with the endurance of Shackleton the polar explorer. Perhaps the truest test for the exercise of patience has to do with submissions.
Consider, for example, those guidelines that claim a response to your submission will be forthcoming in three months—or four or five or whatever it is. Keep believing it. Staffs are small, volunteer readers few, and administrative requirements burdensome. Throw in summer vacations, spring breaks, editors giving birth, internal skirmishes, even leaking roofs; in all likelihood you’re going to wait for an answer.
Be patient. Be understanding. They’ll get back to you. Someday. Maybe. Well, not always. Of course, the writer continues to write, but she is also waiting. As the pages fly off the calendar (pretend it’s an old movie), time passes. That’s okay. It must mean your piece is getting serious consideration. Right? More time, more consideration? There’s hope, hope being the companion of patience. But then more months pass—still no response. Hope fades, patience atrophies. Ten months, a year. “We regret that . . .” Alas, it seems the reward for patience, more often than not, is an expression of regret.
But don’t despair; now the writer can submit online. It will speed things up, enable the writer to monitor the progress of his piece, mollify even the most impatient. Really? Terms like Received and In Progress are not particularly edifying. Response time appears to be little affected by the wonders of the submission manager. Moreover, the ability to submit electronically seems to swell the number of submissions. Consequently, consideration of new submissions stops while harried staffers work their way through apparently monumental backlogs. Be patient. Your piece might eventually emerge from the electronic pile. And if you are trying to submit, just wait, someday the logjam will end. If you lack the requisite writerly patience, there are plenty of other magazines. Unfortunately, some of them have backlogs too.
Of course, there is the lure of those journals that disdain simultaneous submissions. They’ve presumably winnowed out all but the most serious submitters, so the process will likely be a speedy one. It’s a proposition the writer hopes is true. When it’s not true, which seems to be much of the time, your story or essay, already long in gestation, is gestating further sans consideration by any other publication. When more than a year has passed with no response, your reservoir of patience will have been sorely tested. Are you ready to do this again? And again? Three years for presumed consideration by three editors. Aye, there’s a test of patience.
Long months, perhaps many long months, pass and the writer decides to inquire about the status of her submission. Patience is still a requisite. Suppress the desire to begin, “I suspect my story has died while in your custody. I hope it was a peaceful death.” Such an approach is unlikely to elicit a positive response. Perhaps it will even curse the chances of a piece that has lingered in the realm of possible acceptance.
Who wants to talk about rejection? Nobody. Everybody. It’s a shopworn topic, to say the least. But when it comes to patience, it’s an obligatory topic. Can’t avoid it. What is the essence of all those recommendations for dealing with rejections? Don’t take them personally, say those who hope to soothe, and be inspired by those stories of numerous rejections at long last offset by acceptance. (Overlooked, of course, are the more numerous stories of numerous rejections followed by more numerous rejections.) Above all, try and try and try again—in short, persevere (which seems to be patience in an active voice).
Writing is hard work. Don’t worry. Be happy. Be patient.
Larry Farrar is a former Foreign Service officer who lives in North Oaks, Minnesota. His stories have appeared in Red Cedar Review, the MacGuffin, the Worcester Review, and Green Hills Literary Lantern. His most recent acceptance came in only a matter of weeks after submission. His most recent rejection (with a note apologizing for the delay) arrived after more than two years.
Peter
After this, how can I ever give you my take, as favorable as it most often is, on your work? When commenting on the writing of others, I’m inclined to respond with “Patience? My ass. You asked for comments and here are my real ones.” I admit however that I often cop out–what a wuss.