Every sense of the word believe I mean. Whatever believing or belief means to you. I think it's a good thing to have. Someone who believes in your writing. Any thoughts?
I have someone who thinks my writing is better than I think it is. She's fantastic. She balances out all the hate.
I have a couple friends who're also writers who seems to believe in me. It always baffles me when they say something about it because they're both much better writers than I am, hahah. It does mean a lot, though, especially coming from people whose art I really admire - I mean support from non-writers is cool, but when it's someone that you know knows their stuff, it counts for a little extra.
Hi, Yes - and it's freaking me out! My sister is my editor, and normally she gives me absolute bollocks about my writing. She's very much into the more modern writing style with little description and massive active voice and fast pace. I'm more Victorian! So she gives me bollocks and I return the favour and somehow we muddle through. But I just finished The Arcanist to the sounds of my sister's praise about it, and it's bugging the hell out of me. I keep thinking there must be something horribly wrong with it. Some huge flaw that I just haven't seen. I may need therapy!!! Cheers, Greg.
While I have folks who are very supportive (my wife, my daughters, some readers and co-workers and crit partners), I think it's important to always remember that nobody will care about your writing as much as you do. Not your spouse or sibling or parent. Not your crit partners or readers or agent or editor or publisher. I guess if you have a crazed stalker-type fan... I am not saying this as a bad thing. But in the end it's your writing and your investment/devotion in time and energy, and the stories you want to tell. Or at least that's the way I see it.
No. My mother wants to read what I write, but for some reason I can't bring myself to show her anything. My friend says she supports me, but whenever I give her something of mine to read (not even to edit. just read and say if she liked it or not) she never reads it.
Years and years ago I wrote some gay erotica (gay porn?) and posted it online. I had a number of people, some of whom I'm still in touch with, tell me it was hot! So that's fun, but the work was far from serious. Nobody has ever read my serious work except my mom, and she liked it (moms are always proud of their kids). But she's been dead for ten years, so now there's nobody.
I have a friend like that too. Not sure why she even brings it up if she's not interested in reading it, right?
When I told my partner I was writing a book their response was... "Do it, I need the money." When I pointed out it wasn't a sure thing I would make anything they said... "You have seen and read so many stories, I know you can write one." Very much flawed logic, but I love their confidence in me. Especially when it comes to something like this.
I don't know. My family has always been supportive. My mom recently got her hands, accidently, on my paper copy of Not Pink ( part of it anyway ) and I nearly dropped through the floor. I had no plans of letting her read that one. I mean, my mom reading about male strippers, and robots, and I think I even used the word m*therf*cker. Aiyeeeh. But she said you've amazed me again. I had no idea you could write this good. She thought the robot was adorable and loved the humor in the story. Hated Hart. Lol. So I would say that's a yes. Plus, I've had some very nice comments from fellow writers on this and other sites. Comments that felt more than just flattery. Something I've found I need to start paying forward. Just letting a writer know - hey, your good keep going.
My mum doesn't give a monkies. I have asked her to read things but she never does. But never mind. My fiance is actually the first person who has taken a genuine interest though it took me a few years to show him anything. At first he was happy to just read stuff but now I can bounce ideas off him, he will write with me and then get the red pen out, which in turn gave me the confidence to lurk on here with all you fine people.
I honestly don't know. I have people who support my wanting to be an author but I do not think I have anybody who truly believes in my work. I just don't know.
Blows me away to read some of your responses. It's just one of those things I've been giving thought to lately. Just met up with a friend who's a journalist, and we've made plans to meet on Sundays to critique each others' work. I think it's what I've been looking for, as a person and as someone who identifies with being a writer. I give a lot of credit to this website, and it's helped me see that there's a community, that people do want to improve and discuss ideas and talk about their craft. I guess it's made something lonesome feel less lonely.
I have someone who believes in me, and by extension, the writing I am attempting to do. And a bunch of other things.
Nope. But I believe in myself and that's all I need. I don't have family, I don't have friends, it's just me against the world. That's the right attitude.
I believe in you guys. I haven't read your writing, but coming to a place like this makes me realize how similar our passions are. We all write different things, in different styles, and about different topics. But we all have a desire to attain an ideal, whatever that ideal is. Something led us to want to improve. For me, writing's this very personal thing that shifts. I think I can say with all sincerity that writing has saved me. And since it shifts, it's been for me a hard thing to discuss. It's like talking about the weather. Today it is 35 degrees Celsius, and it feels like 40 with the humidity. I don't know what that is in Fahrenheit, but I'm sure google will tell you. I was on the road driving from 8 - 830 AM. It was sunny and there was no traffic and I drove with the windows down, and I got where I was heading before I said I would. Went for a walk in the park. Was hard to breathe since it was so hot and didn't walk for as long as I usually do. Then drove the folks to church; the windows went up, and the AC came on. Then food. Good but pricey. Back home you get a text from a friend you haven't seen in over a year. It's been too long. You make tons of reasons for this. You let guilt consume you. Something about saying sorry is hard. You don't want to say I've been meaning to call, I just haven't. Hatch a great plan. Let's go to the park in O, you say, and we can grab coffee and food along the way, I'll bring half a bottle of wine. Excitedly he agrees, and though drinking in public places is only slightly illegal, it is for some reason more than exciting. Then at park with friend. Different park from morning park. His limbs are long and he is lanky and he is just the way you remembered. Talk about the red rock-face which towers over the river, debate whether that tree is a willow tree, the one standing by those picnic tables; this is where you'll sit. You'll talk about this, you'll talk about that. This they call catching up. Eventually your talk leads in to writing, and how writing is more than writing, and by now it is not as sunny as it was earlier. In fact, the clouds are billowing and he becomes nervous and you hear thunder somewhere high above the trees. Let's go he says. So you go, off driving in his car, and you replant yourselves at a table inside a coffee shop and sit and talk some more. It is sunnier here in M than it was back in O. You point out the window and look, and you can see everything outside, the glass is so clear. The road, the clipped lawns, the parked cars by the large brown building across the street. The people walking. The clouds above, moving. This is what writing should be, you say, that if someone sat where you sat they would see what you see. It begins to sprinkle, and when he drops you off at your house it is raining hard, harder than it has all month. And he asks whether you want to sit down and workshop your writing. That's what I wanted to ask you, you say, but honestly I've forgot, we've just been talking about everything. You agree to meet Sundays, you tell him something about how it feels like no time has passed, that it feels like we're picking up from where we last left off. Where you last left off was the January in 2014. Today you're a different person.
Yes. My fiancee believes firmly in my writing but I also have had several people in my actual writing group who like my stuff and think it's publishable - those people have been invaluable in that they have enough experience with writing to balance out some of the other people in the group who originally thought my concept was fundamentally flawed and beyond suspension of disbelief. If I'd just had the negative feedback, I might have quit. Actually I did consider quitting on the book because of the harshness of some early critics - who meant well and who I'd still get along with, but they picked out the basic worldview underpinnings of the book as the things they thought would have to be fundamentally reversed before they would accept the book as believable. I definitely needed some other people to help tune out that one point.
