I’m beginning this blog at the end.

There is a method to this madness, especially since this blog will be about writing. To those just starting to write, the matter of which I am about to touch is the terrible, anxiety-ridden obsession, the shadowy cabal to which they so desperately wish to pledge. To those midcareer or later, who have the well worn cabal membership card, it is still a terrible anxiety-ridden obsession, but one that they have learned to cultivate in secrecy. But it’s all the same, amateur to expert. We all want to fast forward to the money shot:
publishing.

Picture this: the odd occasion for which I manage drag out my hermit ass to a social event. I shake hands with someone, and somewhere between cocktail four and five they learn I’m a writer (usually from my companion to said event; I quit telling people “I’m a writer” long ago. Why is an entirely different rant for an entirely different post), they inevitably, inexorably, and inescapably ask: “Are you published?”
When I admit that, yes, I am, one of two things happen:

• One: those sans literary ambition are momentarily satisfied that this evening that I am not an alcoholic (boho artist are adventurous, not addicts, don’tcha know) and that they met a real.live.author and proceed to name drop until they realize no one has heard of me.
• Two: Their eyes light up, they drag me to a quieter corner, and announce to me that they too are writers, as if they are admitting a secret shared defect (maybe they are). Inevitably, inexorably, and inescapably, they ask about publishing: How did I do it? Sometimes they touch my arm (perhaps I am falling—it’s been a few drinks). They look up at me, positively ingenuous, ready for the “answer.”

Although I‘m notorious for avoiding social events, these two situaltions happen repeatedly. I usually try to escape, at this point. The aspiring writer then usually lets loose with one of five statements—always one of the same five—deemed henceforth the “mythos about publishing.” I look for the fire doors.

Yes, I have learned a few answers about publishing, but I’ve also learned no one likes those answers.  I’ve told the truth a few times, and gotten the stink-eye. They want a magic bullet (and a weight loss pill that works), and unrestrained agreement with the five mythos. I now usually mutter something about “too much drink vomit” and common sense does the rest.

The truth isn’t popular. And the truth is, “I don’t really know.” And the truth also is that “I know a few things.”

So, to make up for all the earnestly struggling writers I’ve ditched in corners, I am typing this ditty up.

The five (+ one bonus question) mythologies about publishing, and the brutal truth (read: Caren’s opinion based on judicious experience)

1. Anyone can get published.
This is true, to a certain extent. Look at me. I just published this article. The magnificence of the internet lies in its complete democracy. Anyone with access to a computer can start a website, a blog, or even an e-zine. If you yell loud enough, others may even come to read it.
There are even now content “farms” (like Helium, for instance) encouraging “citizen journalism” (frantic airquotes on WTF this is) and homegrown writing. Become a member, and you write articles and read articles by other members, who read your articles. Once in a blue moon, your work may be picked up for less than a penny a word for use on a website or in a magazine no one else has heard of (still counts as a sale, dammit).
Self-publishing actual physical books and objects is easier than ever, too. Places like Lulu produce really slick looking volumes. You don’t even need to fork over much—yell loud enough and you can get people to go and buy the book, which will be slickly printed-on-demand.
The happy truth is that the web is still the wild west. You can plop down a homestead. People have garnered names for themselves on it for things besides their boobs.
(notice I haven’t mentioned publishing houses yet)

2. I’ll never get published.
Define “never.” Define “published.”
If you are talking about a big-name publisher with lots of money to put behind you in promotion and to you in an advance, no, probably not.
If you are talking about a small, independent publisher with great street cred and no money—no, still probably not, but maybe.
In both these cases, I’m talking the playing odds. The numbers are stacked against you. Book sales are down and competition is as high as ever. However, it can and it does happen. New writers are discovered, new books are printed. So, how does it happen?
Even out the odds.
First of all, write something worth publishing. Show it to people that are not related to you. Rewrite it over and over again (chances are that you are not Kerouac, and your first though isn’t your best thought). Read. A lot. In and out of your genre. Read like a “maker” (how did they do that?) and the rewrite your work again. I wrote Homecoming seven times over the course of 3 years and really, it still could have been reworked a bit. A lot.
Take what you can get. Don’t be a snob. Publish anywhere, as long as you retain rights to your work. No venue is too small. When I was a junior in college, I ran the literary magazine. I published a short story by Drew Goddard. Now he helps give my Thursday nights meaning, among other things.
Research. Look at who publishes work you like and work like yours. I bet you’ll see the same names over again. Publishing is often specialized like that. Then, research that publisher. Do better than submitting to “Dear Sir or Madam.” Follow, do not interpret, their submission rules. They say email, they mean email.
Submit often. The more you submit, the higher your chances.  However, do not stalk a publisher by sending, one-by-one, everything you have ever written to them. Spread the love among good potentials.
If, by god, someone with some publishing connections asks you if you have something…say yes. If you don’t, get some coffee and write it. Don’t be scared.
Pray. Know that you are in the slush pile and the best that can happen is that your work ends up on someone’s desk who is in a great mood and can do something about it.

3. I’d better get an agent as soon as possible.
The best response is one I was given (by the late, great Lucia Berlin) when I asked her the same question (with big, wet, innocent eyes): “If you need to ask, my dear, then you don’t need one.”
If you want to go after the big dogs, they won’t even look at work unless it’s agented. But agents usually won’t look at you unless you’ve published something. Agents make their money when and if the sell your work. This takes a lot of lunches. The agent wants to know that sooner or later your work will cover those lunches (and part of their mortgage). You need a track record. See #2 above for advice on that. Small magazines, websites, small presses who probably pay in copies for your family to hang on the fridge don’t require agents.
And when you do need an agent, by god, get some referrals. Research them. I’ve known writers who asked more questions of a potential dentist than an agent—granted, teeth are really, really important, but then again, so is the future of your career, right?

4. Publishing will totally make me rich and famous (or the variant of “life as a writer is really glamorous”).
It happens in the movies. It happens to authors Oprah likes. It happens when a book becomes a movie. And sometimes, it just happens.
The truth is that most of us can’t live off our writing. Money comes in small chunks, is well-spaced out, and usually is for non-fiction we wrote specifically for money.
And  unless you get a movie or Miss O’s attention, no one’s heard of you. No one’s heard of me, either. We’ve heard of each other, maybe. 
I’m always surprised at how few aspiring writers that anticipate a living off the writing life understand how you get paid for book publishing, for example (as in, an advance is an advance on royalties, which means it’s kind of a “loan.” Once the publisher makes back the advance on sales, then and only then do you see royalties. Sometimes, that = never).

And all of these four were, of course, leading to…

5. There’s a magic formula to getting published.
Nope. There isn’t. And that’s the big, cheerless truth.
Although we can turn that all sideways and be totally optimistic. If there is no one true path, you can get there by any path.
No wonder so many writers have historically turned to Zen or to booze, eh?
I wish there was an easier answer. I don’t think there is. And I did search for it. I found an entire mini industry dedicated to selling me books and courses that promised the answer.
I also found this: write something good. Work the hell out of it. You’re a writer because you love to write, have some sick compulsion to do so, or can’t imagine not doing it. When you’ve written something good, send it out and cross everything. Then go back to the writing chair and make more work.
Understand now why I avoid the question? You totally want to dump something on my head or give me a dirty look. It’s not satisfying. There’s no guarantee.  It’s completely scary. And I don’t think that it ever gets easier for the lot of us.

But we’re not quite done. I want to add a bonus riposte. This isn’t a publishing mythology, but I get asked this a lot, usually in conjunction with publishing questions…

6. Should I go to school to get a degree in creative writing?
You could. I did. I got my BA after writing seriously for only a year, and I knew if I went into the world, I’d lose what I was just developing. So, I got my MFA in writing at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago (as a member of the inaugural class in writing!).
There are a zillion writing programs now—some degree granting (under- or graduate level), some non-credit. Some are residential, some offer distance learning. Some specialize in genres, like memoirs, others require you to try a little of everything. Some are free, some are the equivalent of a really big house.
Should you go? Like I said, I did. Here’s what 2 years in an MFA program in writing got me:

• Two years of writing time. I had other classes, but most of my time was expected to be writing. That was my job.
• Contacts. I met people I wouldn’t have had access to. Other writers, some even fairly famous. One contact I met I hold indirectly responsible for having my first manuscript land on someone’s desk while they were in a great mood and wanted do something about it.
•  An MFA, which is the terminal degree in the arts. This allowed me to teach at the college level to pay the bills (see #4).
• A HUGE ASS student loan that will follow me until I drop dead (I went to a degree granting program, new without grantable money, which cost the equivalent of a really big house).

Was it worth it? Absolutely. I went and milked those two years for every drop of goodness. I put aside everything else and made that my one priority.
Should you do it? Yes, if you can milk your time for every drop of goodness and make it priority one. If you can’t, it can be a really spendy waste.  You don’t need a degree to write, and if you have a job that pays the bills (and don’t have to teach) and the letters after your name mean nothing, then don’t sweat it.  Make your own program. Find a writer’s group, if you must, and memorize everything in #2 after “Even out the odds. “ That’s pretty much everything I learned anyway.

My next entry will double back to the beginning, again, I think. Or maybe the middle. We’ll see.

Thanks for stopping by my new blog/web home. You’re welcome back anytime, and I pinky swear I won’t mumble something about having to puke.