Do readers and writers think and read differently?

Or let me put it this way:
Once you get published, will you always have this little editor/writer/critic in your head, who keeps a certain emotional distance to the text… so that you can no longer “lose yourself” in the reading process?

When you become a writer, does the reader in you die?
:-S

But isn’t it less than half the work if you write a book with someone else Sounds good to me!

Rebecca: Sometimes the caps are on, sometimes not. I likes to keep you on your toes.

A. R. Yngve: You’re thinking as a writer. It’s as a reader that I want my friend to finish and publish the book so that I can buy it for all my friends.

Dawn: Hey back atcha! There are lots of collaborative books published, but I think most are by already published writers. Or at least one of them is. I imagine if the book is good that won’t be a problem, but I honestly don’t know. I certainly don’t think you should let your worries about it stop you from submitting when you think the book’s as good as it could be.

Penni: You’re a braver woman than me. The few occasions I’ve had a squiz at slush piles was totally scarifying. I also have a friend who used to send me all the worst examples she’d come across. Horrifying!

I second your advice to Rebecca.

Dawn

But . . . the emotion the writer felt in writing it did not make it to the page, and the hero is either a Mary Sue or so perfect he’s boring.

One of the hardest lessons we all have to learn (except of course for the geniuses who get it right without effort, and by instinct) is that what we feel when writing our story doesn’t necessarily make it to the page. That’s where skill and practice and polish and revision and feedback get their innings.

Well… yes, but only in terms of your own emotional reaction. In terms of style, content, ability… prolly not so much.

As long as the novel exists in physical form, it’s not a waste: she’ll find a channel for it; there’s hope.

What do people expect of getting published, anyway? Some sort of official personal validation? “We, the Sacred Priesthood Of Arcane Editors Grant You, Writer, the status of Soulful Being.” Ain’t no such thing.

One thing that hit me once I actually got published for real, was this: “Whaddya know… I’m still the same old schmuck as before. Getting published is very nice and all, but it wasn’t the life-transforming experience I expected. No groupies, no fan letters. Well, no harm done.”

(Followed five minutes later by the inevitable “Crikey! what am I gonna write next??” panic…)

two many ones.

my nano finally started moving a little better last night. here’s hoping it lasts.

Sherwood: I know. I totally agree with your caveat. That is so seldom true. For every Kelly Link there are gazillions of delusionals.

“Commercial” is such a slippery term. I mean really it means “sells”. But all sorts of different books sell. Super-literary ones: House of Leaves, super trashy ones: [insert title here]. There are books that have sold bajillions of copies that seemed like a big risk at the time. Not to mention all those books that were supposed to be sure-fire commercial that sank without a trace.

Though I will enter one small caveat, based on my own experience reading writers’ reactions to rejections. When it is stated that publishers want a book to be commercial, it does not mean they deliberately set out to buy crap. One might find flaws in this or that book, flaws that perhaps that editor didn’t see, but what they saw was a zippy pace, perhaps, or intriguing characters, or a nifty idea–something that will draw readers in, even if those readers are not discoursing on haut literateur in N.Y. cafes.

One of the most self-defeating attitudes I’ve seen for the frustrated writer is the conclusion that “I am simply too unique, too clever, for New York publishing. My books are too daring, and I write too well–they don’t know what to do with me.”

That attitude is going to keep bringing the blues home, sure as fire. Because for every writer for whom that might be true (your second example comes to mind) it is not at all true for [insert big number here].

When an editor says nice things about prose–ideas–character in a rejection letter, the book is still being rejected. The unsaid is, “I was bored.” Not “This is just too daring and brilliant for me to take a risk.”

That’s the hardest thing of all right there.