THE DOCTOR IS IN

On Wednesday evening, I heard Edgar Meyer, Sam Bush, and Jerry Douglas in concert at Carnegie Hall’s Zankel Hall. Because I basically stopped paying attention to new music after the Beatles broke up, I had only the vague impression, going in, that we were going to hear some bluegrass.

Before I became an anachronism, “bluegrass” usually meant a bunch of guys picking fast, catchy tunes on their banjos and singing about broken hearts and alcohol abuse in unusually high voices. That was fine with me, but it was hard to imagine why my husband and son, who are more musically sophisticated and demanding than I am, were so excited about having snagged these tickets, especially since attending the event required my son to trash long-standing Halloween plans with fellow adolescents.

The first few minutes only deepened my confusion. There were no banjos and no singing. During the opening bars, my mind flitted from one association to another—from the Chieftains to Eric Clapton to Italian Renaissance music—in an attempt to categorize what I was hearing, to place it in a familiar context.

After that, the concept of “genre” became irrelevant. In fact, the idea of “concept” faded away, as the intricate, interwoven patterns of sound took over and led me into new and fascinating areas of experience.

“So what makes this bluegrass, again?” I couldn’t help asking during the intermission. I didn’t understand the answer, and you wouldn’t either because my attempt to reproduce it here would render it gobbledygook. (It has something to do with the twangy sounds, I think.) I did notice that Caroline Leavitt’s husband, Jeff Tamarkin, had written the program notes, and I considered calling him for an explanation, but then I decided I don’t care. Genre may be important to academics and marketing people, but as a naïve consumer, all I am really interested in is how the music affected me—in this case, deeply.

The audience was not huge, but it was rapt. The musicians clearly enjoyed playing off the energy in the house, but I got the impression that they would have had almost as much fun by themselves in somebody’s living room—that the joy derived primarily from the music itself, and the chance to share it with appreciative others was a nice (and lucrative) extra.

Or maybe I was projecting my own feelings onto them. Because I know I would give almost anything to be that good. Money and acclaim are attractive, too, don’t get me wrong—especially when I’m feeling isolated and unappreciated, and most especially with college tuition looming—but every time I come smack up against art that moves and transports me, I walk away with that stripped-down feeling—the conviction that most of the problems that preoccupy me are transient and trivial, and that love and art are all that matters. That was what I took away from this concert, and that’s what I’m feeling today.

What does all this have to do with the subject of this column, the emotional and psychological aspects of writing?

I have been struggling with a dilemma. Judging from my email and blog comments, my situation is not unique, and my experience at the concert helped me clarify my thinking and plan my course.

Here is my story: As I posted here, over the summer I completed and submitted a proposal for a new book. I was excited about the idea, and so, initially, was my dream publisher. I received a number of assurances that they were “committed” to doing the book—that it was just a matter of working out the format and official category with the marketing people, to ensure that the book was positioned to reach its target audience effectively. The concept itself was fresh and original; the sample chapters had the editorial department laughing hysterically (my writing has had that effect before, but this time it was actually intentional); and the underlying social message was timely and important. All that was needed were time and patience, to get the marketing people on board.

Except that the marketing people had no intention of climbing on board such an alien vehicle. They couldn’t even define it—was it parody or social commentary; YA or parenting; fiction or self-help? How could they possibly sell such an amorphous mess?

So after several months of praise and reassurance, I got a nice email wishing me all the best with it, please stay in touch, glad to look at other work, etc., etc.

It gets complicated here, because I don’t actually have an agent. My original agent and I parted ways, amicably, after she was unable to sell my first novel. While I was working on my second novel, a wonderful editor from Seal Press contacted me about the possibility of writing the book that became Getting Unstuck without Coming Unglued. A writer friend put me in touch with a terrific agent who was not taking on new clients, but who agreed to review my contract and any future contracts I might procure by myself. That arrangement was perfectly satisfactory when publishing contracts seemed to be falling into my lap, but now I was stranded with no contract and no agent.

Other friends put me in touch with their agents, their friends’ agents, and their agents’ friends. All agreed to review the proposal. A few are still considering it, but most have declined, for the same reasons the first publisher’s marketing department balked: There is no specific shelf for a book like this. Yes, it’s funny and fresh, but possibly too fresh—there is no way to predict how a book like this would sell, because there are no other books like this. And it’s not (and I’m not) “big” enough to take that kind of chance on.

I have heard from two agents who would be willing to take it on with certain changes that would simplify and clarify its genre, and thus render it more marketable.  I know I can rework it to their specifications, and they believe it has a good chance if I do.  But these changes would subvert the intent and theme of the book completely.

I have been trying to talk myself into this. I want a good agent. I want to be published. I understand that there are certain compromises we all need to make in order to get where we want to go—and that total artistic purity is less likely to lead to great triumph than to a readership of one.

But this is where Wednesday’s concert comes in, with its reminder of the primacy of love and art.

There can be great value in writing to others’ specifications. It’s like playing scales—the exercise strengthens the muscles, sensitizes the ear, and enhances flexibility and facility. For-hire work can also help a writer learn to accept criticism impersonally and use it constructively. But I’ve done that. I wrote speeches, grant proposals, and publicity material for years before returning to graduate school. I still write for causes I believe in. I’m grateful for all of this work, and I know my writing has benefited from it. But if technique is not used to serve a deeper purpose, it becomes an empty exercise. And I don’t have the leisure for that.

So I’m not going to make those changes, even if it means my book never gets published.

Because I want to be that good. And I am 55 years old—there may not be a lot of time left. I need to concentrate on digging deeper, on using my gifts to express my vision, on learning even more from the writers, teachers, and editors whose comments speed my development and understanding—on creating and honing the best art I am capable of, without regard to marketability or genre.

This is not a statement of moral or artistic superiority. I understand that I am writing from a position of privilege. My “day job” is so fulfilling that I would keep doing it even if I didn’t need to work. My stories and essays do get published, and this column goes up every week. Even if I never get another book contract, I’m in the conversation. I might have made a different choice if I were younger, unpublished, or dependent on writing to support myself—or even if I’d stayed home on Wednesday night to distribute candy corn as originally planned.

But right now, I can afford to declare for art—and right now, I can’t afford not to. And at this moment, my best hopes for my writing are 1) that it will grow increasingly honest, perceptive, courageous, and beautiful; and 2) that one day, it will inspire a struggling and conflicted artist to persevere, to dig deeper, to commit to creating and honing the best art she is capable of, without regard to marketability or genre.

Susan O'Doherty, Ph.D., is a clinical psychologist with a New York City-based practice. A fiction writer herself, she specializes in issues affecting writers and other creative artists. Her book,  Getting Unstuck Without Coming Unglued: A Woman's Guide to Unblocking Creativity, is now available in bookstores. Send your questions to her at Dr.Sue at mindspring dot com.

Comments

[Mischa KK Bagley]

Susan:

I was fascinated with your story about your book being out of genre, or trans genre. I've had the same reaction to every book I've written -- all novels, all vastly different to each other, all unpublished to date. Though you didn't actually mention your book's subject matter, or if it's fiction or non-fiction, I'd nevertheless love to know a little more about it -- if that's something you'd be prepared to discuss. Just out of curiosity, as it were. Or should that read solidarity.

Mischa KK Bagley.

The Confession of the Panther Woman ©

http://theconfessionofthepantherwoman.blogspot.com

Sex, drugs, and metamorphosis.

[M.J.]

Great column, fascinating. And I know the felling I don't write in a genre but across them and its been uphill all the way... the problem is the publishers not the audience... whenever I give talks I ask them questions about Genre and they are so much more fluid than publishers are.

[Caroline]

Fabulous column (and call or email Jeff and he'll be happy to talk about Bluegrass if you still want.) I loved it that you are going to write what you want, that that becomes more important than fitting yourself into a genre, which never really works anyway. With passion and commitment like that, you'll find your readers, and best of all you'll be doing what you love.

[Josephine Damian]

Susan, I say: Good for you! I think you made the right choice.

What about e-publishers? Or small/boutique press? Have you considered those options?

[Susan]

Wow. What an inspiration. The post is beautifully written and conceived (flowing from the genre-defying concert and the idea that one never knows where one will find one's guide), and it works as a steadying vision for this disheartened writer. Thank you. Not bad marketing either; whatever is in that passed-over manuscript sounds more than intriguing.

[Susanne Dunlap]

I didn't get to this as early as I normally read your column each Friday, Sue. What a fabulous manifesto to take forward into the weekend. I know how difficult it is to make those choices, and how alone one can feel sticking to one's guns. The easy route can actually be full of unforeseen pitfalls and doubling back. We none of us know how much time we'll have to achieve what we want to, so it's important to make it all mean something, at least to oneself.

All I can say is, You go girl!

[nbm]

not exactly to your point, but two comments. One, your writing is so good these days. Two, you and I were only a few dozen feet apart on Wednesday night -- I was in Weill Hall listening to the viola da gamba.

[Katharine Weber]

What a brilliant "Dear Genre" letter this is.

[kate maloy]

Oh, Sue, I'm sorry I missed this yesterday. I forgot it was Friday. It's a fabulous column and an always timely reminder that we have to follow our own vision or we lose our greatest strength.

As another famous writer once said, "Embrace your strangeness."

[Nick Oliva]

When I scanned the word "genre" being a musician and understanding that experience, I gleefully read this article. I know exactly how you feel. I sought out M.J. Rose in 1999 and asked for her help in getting my book to the right people. It came close to being published earlier in 1995 but looking back now I know it needed more time. M.J. read the manuscript and said something that stood with me until this very day. I write literary fiction. I cannot write any other way. This is who I am. The cross-genre of "Only Moments" was a detriment in getting published by large house, but after another close-but no cigar rejection-I put it to the side somewhat bitter. Then 9/11 hit and I knew if I was ever to get this book in print I had to include that tragedy as the character lived in NYC during that time, but I knew I had to wait years to be able to write it in good conscience. In 2006, I spent six months polishing and adding the World Trade towers chapter and published it through that talked about controversial company Publish America by my choice as I wasn't aware of all the prior stories. However, it was a good experience, they did a great job but there was a huge prejudicial bias against anyone reviewing it that I think extends to other companies such as I-Universe and others. I did finally get reviewed and the people who bought the book overwhelmed me with their great reviews and I then knew I touched souls and that was all that I wanted to do from the beginning. No one gets rich from selling books unless they are tied into movies and even then the odds are long. Fourteen years later, I'm happy that I put to posterity my "coming of age" novel that is science fiction, a spiritual romance, and a life lesson experience that people that have read it "got it." The "road" or journey is what life is all about. I don't want to stop that traveling or motion. I want to get better at all that I do because it is the self-satisfaction that is the essence of my life and being and I want to drain every drop of it before I pass over(again) to that infinite realm. Thank you Susan for jolting my memory and thank you M.J. for being there on that path.

Nick Oliva
www.onlymomentsbook.com

[Susan O'Doherty]

Wow. Thank you all, so much. I don't want to talk too much about the project, except to say that it isn't exactly "high art," as you might infer from this post--it's a light and fun (I hope) parody with a serious underlying message--but it's the message that people have suggested I change or tone down to make it more marketable. At any rate, I appreciate all of these comments more than I can say.

[Jennie]

Damn! Whatever it is, I want someone to publish it, because if it doesn't fit into a genre, it's just what we need! Those are the books that are really fun to read. Keep prowling around for a publisher who's on your wavelength--I'll be rooting for you.