On rejection

I hadn't heard of Michael Hastings until he died last week, which is merely more evidence of how exceedingly poorly read I am.

But I found this post, which contains his advice to would-be journalists. Apart from reminding me why I'll never be a journalist, it included, almost as an afterthought the one thing that I've come to believe is more important than pretty much anything else in creative endeavours.*

"Learn to embrace rejection as part of the gig. Keep writing/pitching/reading."

The words "embrace rejection" seem wholly paradoxical at first reading. And the second sentence seems almost glib. But this final note in his list struck me. Hard.

Embracing rejection isn't about loving a knock-back. It's about understanding why the publication or person didn't want your work, and assessing your ideas in light of that. Maybe you'll come out the other end saying, "yeah, okay, but I'm still hot on this idea for reasons x, y and z. I'm gonna keep shopping this one." Or maybe you'll change tack slightly, reflect and alter the plan on the basis of the new information you've got. (That is, the rejection.)

There is nothing more freeing than ceasing to be emotionally tied to your output in a way that doesn't allow for anyone not to like it.

When I stopped instantly rejecting criticism, I realised that everyone really does see everything differently. And when I realised that, I understood that a rejection told me something about the person (or a publication, or an organisation).

If I wanted to, I could use that information for good—perhaps by shaping my next idea to reflect what I'd learned. Or I could use it for evil, clutching ever more tightly to my own idea, willing to die (or wind up living in a cardboard box) to protect its integrity from detractors.

And when I realised that, I (largely) stopped being afraid that my "creativity" wasn't enough, that my ideas might be no good.

Then I really started enjoying writing for people.

*By which I mean not just creative work, but, you know, "life".

Release early, and release often

Writers (among others working in creative fields) have this idea that their work must be perfect before it's seen. This notion probably stems from the idea that writing is a kind of art. In some cases, writing is a kind of art.

But let's face it: few of those cases are mercantile.

If you're writing for a client, or writing as a contribution to a bigger communication that involves others—designers, marketers, etc. etc.—then hiding your precious prose from prying eyes until you've spent ages refining it to a state of perfection is counter-productive. Almost entirely so.

If someone else needs to approve your work, your best bet is to take the developers' advice: release early, and release often.

This doesn't mean you should give your client half-baked garbage. What it means is that they need to be on the, shall we say, creative journey with you. They need to know what you're thinking as you're thinking it, so that they can contribute to it, and help you shape it to their needs. And if you're working with other creatives, the same logic applies.

Spend days polishing a draft, and you're wasting time. Write your draft, go away, check and refine, and then just present the fucker.

Don't present it as a finished article. Call it a prototype. This gives your work boundaries (people expect prototypes to be a bit flimsy, to wobble and sway a little) and a sense of testability: the whole purpose of a prototype is to see how its key functionality stands up to experimental use.

This will incline your clients to think about the copy, take it for a spin, run it past some colleagues, and maybe even sleep on it for a few days. It encourages a broader scrutiny and more thoughtful, more thorough feedback. It also consolidates client relationships and builds rapport.

Ultimately, releasing early and often lets you write better copy, and produce better communications.

Oh, and as a bonus, it also takes the angst out of copy presentation.

Fist-shaking at Facebook

I imagine, that, like me, you've spent much of your time crafting your very existence so that you avoid the things that you know frustrate you.

Facebook, however, seems so intimately woven into the fabric of social exchange and engagement now that I find it difficult to avoid. Hence my daily fist-shaking.

Today's gem?

If by using inverted commas around the mysteriously all-cap-sed fish, you mean fantastical, pretend fish—things masquerading as fish, or simply entirely made-up fish—then let's name four:

One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish.

Fuck you, Facebook, and all the banal, soul-crushing stupidity you stand for.*

*Yeah, I probably feel a little too strongly about this.

Mind-blowing lines #30

In No Country for Old Men, Moss gives a hitchhiking runaway this advice:

It's not about knowing where you are. It's about thinking you got there without taking anything with you. Your notions about starting over. Or anybody's. You don't start over. That's what it's about. Ever step you take is forever. You can't make it go away. None of it.

Every step you take is forever. So many people are paralysed by that thought. What if we make the wrong decision, take a wrong step? Or, we think things are so bad that if we can't get another start, we'd rather be dead.

But for some reason, it galvanises me to action: is this my forever? Lord no. Is what I have what I want as the sum total of what I can't make go away? No.

Time to make plans.