Great questions, SVB. My answers may be more, um, comprehensive than you intended. And thanks to IE for ringing in with his usual wonderful insight. His reminder that every writer finds his or her own way forward is fantastically important.
Nothing I'm about to write is prescriptive. Rather, it's an overview of the way I work. Feel free to add to it, subtract from it, or dispute it entire. Please do follow up with specific questions.
So first let me say that my "work harder" line of comment arose out of the idea that The Jones is merely "insanely talented."
Of course he is. But he also makes the most of that singular, original gift by working it as hard as he can. And he works a lot harder than many writers with comparable talents. (This is generally true of every successful writer I know.) I know he works harder than I do.
Insane talent would be worth a great deal less to him - and to his readers - if, for example, he had no discipline. His gift would be considerably diminished were it not bolstered by, say, great reporting (about which we can say more in a moment). Or the willingness to make certain sacrifices in service of the work.
So let's stipulate that given any two writers of equal 'talent', the harder-working of the pair is more likely to succeed on the page and in the world. (This isn't always true of course. The world is notoriously unfair.) Thus, within the reach of what we can control, a great work ethic > a poor work ethic.
As you point out, now we just have to define 'work,' and the ways we can improve it.
I'll encourage others to weigh in with their notions on the matter, but here's a start, based entirely on myself and my own experience. Please keep in mind that a lot of what I say here won't be directly applicable to every writer everywhere, especially those writing on daily newspaper deadlines. I believe, though, that the fundamentals and broad principles can be made use of in bits and pieces.
- To begin, I'm going to define 'work' as any part of my writing that isn't simply unthinking and indefinable (i.e., 'talent'). Or that isn't innate in my character, like passion or faith. By which I mean this - I separate those things over which I have conscious control from those attributes I may possess simply as a matter of chance, disposition or heredity. I also distinguish those things I control from those forces I cannot, like 'misfortune,' or 'good luck.'
- 'Work' is therefore anything upon which I can consciously exert influence - both over the course of producing a single story, or over the arc of an entire career.
- Having decided all that, I can now use each thing in service of the other. I can 'work harder' by bringing decision and discipline to bear on the 'talent,' and I can 'work smarter' by letting my 'talent' (or other undefinable) inform my decision-making.
Writing
- For me the root discipline is to write every day, whether I'm working on a story or a book or not. And by every day, I mean seven days a week. I don't always write to a word count, but I'm in the chair and writing. I do this for a couple reasons. It makes writing less of an 'event,' and more a matter of easy habit. It keeps me supple and strong. It keeps me in touch with language and the infinite possibilities it presents. One of my earliest teachers, a novelist named John Gardner, believed deeply in the necessity of this and I've found it to be true in myself.
- A further part of that discipline (for me) is to write at the same time every day. I tend to do my best work early, so I keep farmers' hours. I do about 90% of my writing before noon. I research and edit in the afternoon and evening. If I'm crashing a deadline, of course, I'll write for as long as I have to. Or in the passenger seat of a rental car, or on a plane. But as a matter of good habit, I try to work when I'm at my best. Even when I've had full-time straight jobs, I've written in the mornings very early. Lots of writers I know prefer that hour right around dawn, just as they're shaking off sleep. You're closer to the dream world, and a little freer creatively, in those moments. As IE says though, it doesn't matter what the best time is for you once you discover it, as long as you stick to it, and honor it with some routine.
- Another argument for keeping your ass in the chair has to do with inspiration. The Muse is a tricky mistress, and won't bear desperate or inept seductions. In my case, I make a point of being available and ready whenever she decides to show up, rather than trying to summon her the day before I'm due to file something. She knows where to find me. And I keep my arms wide open to her. And yes, of course, I get good ideas in the shower, or in the middle of the night, or when I'm walking down the street. Which is why I always - always - have a notebook handy. (For those with an interest in such, The Jones and I recently discovered that we carry exactly the same kind of little notebook. He does, however, have a rockin' one-of-a-kind bacon wallet.) The real voodoo of literary creation lies in getting the ideas to come when you need them, when you're actually sitting there typing.
- Pursuant to that, learn how to organize your ideas. Get in the habit of setting aside time every week to formally inventory them. You've been making notes in your notebook (things you see, hear, think), and clipping pieces from the newspaper and bookmarking items online all week, right? In service of finding story ideas? Make time every week to sift through them. Sometimes a couple of small narrative fragments reconsidered and recombined can become a great story.
- And just let me say that while I realize that these are elementary principles, they're also the bedrock upon which every successful writer eventually has to build. And yes, we include Kerouac and Thompson and scores of others in that accounting. They had their disciplines, too. It wasn't all benzedrine and tequila and mad ambition.
Reading
- Another foundational principle for me is reading. I've hammered at that enough here that I won't go into detail. But the more you've read across the whole range of writing, the more you'll understand what's possible with words. It's that simple. Learn to read with a purpose, with a pencil in your hand, marking up pages you admire or don't understand. Read away from your interests, rather than toward them, i.e., non-fiction writers will benefit from reading and writing poetry. Of your reading in general, ask yourself some questions:
- Have I read widely and deeply enough to know what's possible when working with the written word?
- Have I read widely and deeply enough across a range of topics to have a rounded view of the world and its basic workings? Can I look at the things in this world and call them by their name? And if I don't, and if I can't, am I willing to put in the effort necessary to do so?
- Have I read widely and deeply enough to understand human traits and desires and habits outside the range of my own experience? How do those things about which I've read inform those things about which I write?
- Who writes the way I'd most like to? What can I learn from close re-readings of their work?
- Having learned to read the work of others critically and fairly, can I now do the same for my own work? Because the most important reading a writer ever does is the first pass edit of their own work.
Reporting
- While writing is often intuitive and difficult to learn and teach, reporting can be consciously and quickly improved. You can learn to be much better at it.
- A journalist's job - longform or short - is to witness. Make yourself a better witness by opening your senses to the world. Learn to catalog the physical attributes of the places you go and the people you meet. Start with their shoes and work up; or start with their hat and work down. Doesn't matter, but get in the habit of recording these things in as much detail as you can muster. The way a profile subject moves through the physical world is often as important as their psychological profile. Sometimes more important. Learn to do the same with buildings and cars and animals and food and songs and sunsets and every other object or concept you encounter. There's meaning in them all. Learn to be a camera.
- The best writers are always working. You're never off the clock. That couple arguing on the bus? Listen to them - that's the voice of marriage. Write down what they say and how they say it. You can't make an ear for language - but you an make an ear for language better.
- As a person who has always had one foot in life and one foot out of it - by which I mean that there's always been a part of me watching myself as I experience things - I can tell you that recording things in this way is both a trait and a habit. It can be learned.
- A good way to do this is to shut up. You won't notice a forking thing if you're too busy asking questions. And if you have no context for them, you're probably asking the wrong questions anyway. Slow down. Look around. What is this place? Who are these people? What's that smell?
- Don't interview people. Talk to them.
- Talk to them as many times as your story calendar will allow. The Jones and I, with the luxury of time, both rely on the stuff we get from the third conversation, or the fifth. If all you're trying to do is generate a quote, you're sunk. And try never to do a phone interview with someone you haven't met.
- 'How' isn't a very interesting line of questioning. 'Why' will keep you busy your entire life.
- Spend as much time as your calendar allows just hanging around the story. My work generally begins in earnest when someone looks up and asks, "Are you still here?"
- If you see a knot of reporters asking your subject questions, walk away. Go look inside his locker; or at what he keeps on the dashboard of his car.
- Dress modestly, and to fit yourself into the story's environment - then recede as best you can into the background. The highest compliment you'll ever receive from a subject is when they look up startled and say, "Christ, I didn't even see you there."
- There are stories for which you have to know absolutely everything going in. There are other stories which can only be approached from a position of perfect ignorance. The trouble is, you often don't know which is which until you're in the middle of it. So train yourself to learn everything. Then train yourself to forget everything you've learned. There's a skill to emptying your head. Learn it.
- Always be prepared. Elementary, but surprising to me how often reporters aren't ready to work. New batteries in your recorder, spares in your pocket; cell phone fully charged; notebooks and pens and pencils handy; laptop charged; functional shoes that will carry you anywhere the story might take you that day; maps if you need them; credentials and passes; raingear, depending; cash, working credit cards; at least one change of clothes in the car, toothbrush, necktie, etc., etc., etc. Worry about this stuff before you ever show up, and you'll never embarrass yourself by having to ask the subject to hang on a second while you root around for something. I've walked out the door some mornings planning to spend the afternoon with a subject and been gone three days. If they ask you to get on a jet with them, you have to jump - you don't ask to run back to the office to get something. It's the main reason I wear a sport coat when I'm working - the giant Captain Kangaroo pockets.
- I carry an actual camera, too. Not that anything I shoot will ever wind up in a magazine - but I'll have a visual record of the things I've seen if I need one.
- Plan your story in advance. Then understand that the story will change. It has to. Then it will change again. And again. Make a plan, then be confident enough to abandon it.
- Know when to stop doing the research and start writing. Leave yourself enough time to fail your way through several drafts of a story before deadline. To me, research is the fun part. In fact, if I could get paid just to do the research without ever having to write a word, I'd do it. But there's a point in the process when you have stop taking in new information and start shaping the information you already have. It varies for every story, but feature writers need to learn how to manage their own time effectively. You'll master this through trial and error.
- To get specific answers, ask specific questions.
- Don't just gather detail, gather salient detail. Gather detail that advances story.
- Never try to judge what you're seeing while you're seeing it. In fact, rid yourself of prejudices entirely - at least as a matter of craft.
- Be fearless. Immerse yourself in the life of the story.
- Never lie to a subject to get something from them. Explain to them what you need and why you need it. Never lie.
- At least two sources on every assertion in every story. Preferably three.
- Use every moment as wisely as you can. Some stories take six months, some six days. A book can take six years. Make every minute's work count.
- You're done with your first draft when you can no longer puzzle out how to fix it. That's when you hope for a good edit from a great editor.
- A great editor is a gift. Once you've found one, cling to them. They are rare indeed. Any recognition or success that I've won over the years I share 50/50 with my editor.
- Editors appreciate clean manuscripts. I take a lot of pride in producing a manuscript that doesn't need much of a copy edit. Learn spelling and punctuation. Don't just count on the computer to catch your errors. And don't count on fact-checkers to catch your errors, either. Be right.
- Dopey as it sounds, be sure you're in sufficient physical shape to do your work.
In General
- As The Jones suggests, be scrupulously honest in every way you can. And kind. The only thing a writer ever really earns and keeps is a reputation. What do you want yours to be?
- Help others.
- It wouldn't kill you to send thank you notes to people for the time they've given you.
- There is no publicist anywhere who doesn't appreciate a free bagel and a cup of good coffee first thing in the morning. Bring food.
- Use your mistakes to get better.
- Use your failures to get better.
- Use your successes to get better.
- Be selective about the stories you choose and the publications for whom you write.
- Choose stories at first that play to your strengths.
- Read 'process' books like the one Ch.B recommends.
- Find mentors.
- Remember that you're never as good - or as bad - as you tell yourself you are.
- Know that this isn't for everyone. That's as it should be. As Paper Dragon points out, the pursuit of it can be obsessive and destructive.
- Longform narrative is hard. It's hard on your psyche and your spirit and your ego. It's hard on marriages and it's hard on children and it's hard on security and stability and wealth. My strategy for myself over the years has been to write fewer pieces, but to write the heck out of each of them. That means that some years I didn't earn much. Some years in fact, I didn't earn anything. I'm OK with that. My wife's OK with that. Because in our case this is a calling, not a job. This is who we are, not what we do. And we bend our lives to accommodate it.
- But having chosen it, or having been chosen by it, give it everything you can.
