To say that I dislike snobs is an understatement. A HUGE one. Maybe it has something to do with moving every two years of my life and always having to reintegrate. I got good at picking out the snobs. Maybe too good.
The writing world is filled with all types of characters. Nice. Young. Crabby. Stinky. You name it. But the demographic I'd like to talk about today are the ones who look down their noses at would-be writers. Are you one of them?
photo credit: Creepy Uncle J (cc)
What's A Snob?
Merriam-Webster says a snob is: “someone who tends to criticize, reject, or ignore people who come from a lower social class, have less education, etc.”
In the literary universe, these take the form of traditionals looking down on indies, or the grammar police looking down on ‘hacks' without mad skills.
They peruse the assembled masses, picking and choosing who might be worthy, hoping for none.
What's A Snark?
Merriam-Webster defines snarky as: “ sarcastic, impertinent, or irreverent in tone or manner.”
We've all read work by snarky writers who've cast aside the rules and developed their own way. These are the rule-breakers, the free spirits. They don't take themselves too seriously and even throw in a dash of self-deprecation for effect.
The ones I'm talking about are not bad people, but because of their irreverent behavior they sometimes get lumped in the snob category.
Why Does It Matter?
I won't pretend that one group isn't better than the other. You can tell by my tone which way I lean.
The reason I even bring this topic up is because as we attain a certain level of expertise with our writing, it's easy to look around and compare.
Comparison is fine, but openly hostile critiquing is something else.
In a world where anonymous trashing is, for some reason, considered kosher, we're invited into the realm of snobbery. Technology makes it easy to say mean things about others and their work because of the magic shield that exists between you and the person thousands of miles away.
To call a writer's work, “Awful” “The worst thing that's ever been written.” “So juvenile even poor orphan Annie wouldn't read it.” It's just mean.
When does it stop?
Criticize At Your Own Risk
Here's my suggestion: Be humble and accepting.
You won't like everyone's work, but that doesn't mean you have to be a snob about it.
If you start a book and don't like it, stop reading. No one's putting a gun to your head!
I'm a firm believer in what's goes around comes around. (Wait. Did I just use a cliche? Shame on me! I shouldn't be a writer!)
That's why I love The Write Practice. We come from all over the world. We have varying levels of experience.
But that's cool. It's what's so special about this place. It's what led me to email Joe and ask him about becoming part of the team.
This is a place to learn and help others.
Smile
I like the house that Joe Bunting built.
It ain't shiny, but it's sturdy.
It ain't fancy, but it's clean.
It ain't Paris, but it's home.
Instead of critiquing, let's focus on uplifting. Trust me, it'll leave a better taste in your mouth.
Have you ever played the snob?
PRACTICE
For the next fifteen minutes, write about a child who figures out that critics don't matter and that he/she is free to ignore them.
Post your practice in the comments section below and please provide positive feedback for your peers.
Yes, yes, and YES! Thank you (as always), Joe.
🙂
This one was all Carlos, Martha, but I’m so glad you liked it!
Well..I really wasn’t planning on this story getting so long…lol…but I like it. So here it is:
It was ten years ago that I learned something I’d carry with me my entire life. I suppose I’ve learned many things since that bright summer day, but this one lesson in particular comes to mind almost every day.
You see, I’m a teenager now, trapped in high school. I try to hide it from my peers, but I’m insecure. I’ve always battled insecurity, and perhaps I always will. But what’s important is that I do just that. I battle it.
So back to that bright summer day. I was six years old, sprawled on the floor in the living room, colored pencils in hand, and a blank sheet of paper in front of me. Mom had classical music playing in the background. I liked it. It made me feel creative. Like the orchestra creating something beautiful, that’s how I felt. I didn’t process all that in my six-year-old mind. I just felt it.
I I drew a picture of a girl standing in a flower garden. I spent extra time creating the roses, since those were my favorite flowers. There was a smile on my face when I finished my masterpiece. That’s when my not-too-much-older-than-me brother showed up.
“Why do you always draw those dumb pictures?” he remarked.
I glared at him and tossed ponytail, “‘Cause I like them.”
He rolled his eyes. “You’re stupid.”
My brother had always said mean things to me, but it had never hurt me so much. I wanted to lash back at him, but I knew that if I spoke, I’d start crying too. I didn’t want him to see me cry. He stomped off, and I went in search of Mom. She was on the phone.
“I’m busy right now,” was all she said in response to me. She hardly even looked at me.
I walked down the hallway feeling dejected, still grasping my masterpiece in my small hands. Then I remembered who I could talk to. She always listened.
I ran out of the house in a matter of second, my bare feet bounding across the backyard toward the small apartment where my grandparents lived.
“Well, hello, Lexie. What brings you over here?” Grandma greeted, her eyes were smiling as usual. She guided me into their comfy home, and we sat down on the couch.
I started crying and attempted to tell Grandma the whole story. It finally all stumbled out.
“Well, I think this is a beautiful picture,” Grandma said inspecting my work, “The colors are so bright. Just like you.”
I whimpered. “He didn’t think so.”
Grandma smiled slowly and eventually she spoke, “Let me tell you something, Lexie.”
I turned my teary eyes to hers.
“What people say can hurt you more than anything” She explained. Her voice had the age-old sound to it.“Words can be the meanest thing or the nicest thing.”
I nodded. That was the truth.
“Now your brother said some said something really hurtful, and I said something nice. But you know what’s more important? The most important thing is that no matter what either one of us said, you made something beautiful.”
I smiled a little bit.
“You’re very gifted, Lexie. I’ve seen all those pictures you’ve been drawing. God’s given a lot of talent. Did you know that?”
I shook my head “no.”
“Well, you are,” Grandma assured me. Then her voice dropped, “You want me to tell you a little secret?”
I nodded my head, my eyes growing larger.
“Your brother’s jealous of you. That’s why he says those mean things. He wishes he could draw as well as you do.”
I shook my head “no” again. That couldn’t be true. But Grandma thought otherwise.
“Don’t let him fool you, sweetheart. he’s just jealous. That’s all.”
“But I don’t like it when he’s mean.” I protested, “And Mom was busy–and–and–” I could feel the tears threatening to pour out again.
Grandma hugged me, “It’s all in the past now, Lexie. Forgive and forget.”
It didn’t seem like the past. It had just happened.
“I want you to promise me something.”Grandma said.
A promise? I loved promises!
.“What?”
“I want you to promise me that you’ll always make beautiful things no matter what others say.”
That was ten years ago. Grandma placed my picture on her refrigerator that day. I remember that feeling of pride swelling in me as I looked up at it.
She has been gone many years now. I miss her in so many ways. I can no longer run to her for encouragement. But that promise we made that day still lives on. I’m not going to let it die. My art stills lives on too. And every time I feel that insecurity coming to attack me I think of Grandma. I remember our promise, and I make something beautiful.
This is absolutely beautiful. One of my favorite lines: “I want you to promise me that you’ll always make beautiful things no matter what others say.”
You pulled me in right away. I felt the sadness and the hope.
Thank you so much for sharing, Joy. Would love to see this turn into something bigger. A novel maybe? 🙂
Thank you, Carlos. I never really know where a story is going when I start out. I love how it grows. 🙂
One of my writing dreams is to write a novel about a twelve-year-old girl battling insecurity. I’ve also imagine her having a grandma similar to the one above. I’m busy with another novel right now though, but hopefully someday… 🙂
She should have super powers. That would be awesome.
This is so sweet and put a smile on my face. Thanks for sharing!
Thank you, Gianna! I’m glad it brought a smile to your face. 🙂
that’s so sweet.
Wow, this is sweet! I didn’t read any of the posts until now, after I wrote mine, but this is amazingly similar!
//
You know what I realized on the way back from Ridge that one night? That maybe you don’t have to dress to impress all the time. I spent fifteen minutes too long trying to make that dumb concussion helmet look better on me. It’s one thing that’s too important now to even consider playing without, despite its appearance. And anyone who wants to make fun of me for wearing it can kiss my ass.
Seriously. I let some stupid words get into my head about the helmet, and I got myself into the hospital again. And I still have the audacity to feel self-conscious in it? Some things you don’t take chances on. You suck it up, strap that thing on and go play some freakin’ volleyball.
After one game I heard someone behind me making a comment about how the helmet looks like a tire around my head. Even though we were on our way to the locker room, I stopped, turned around and told the girl, “A tire? You got me. Sometimes when we’re bored at practice, my teammates like to roll me around the court. You’d really be surprised by the traction this thing gets.” And then I turned around and left her frowning face in my dust.
That was pretty funny. “I spent fifteen minutes too long trying to make that dumb concussion helmet look better on me.” As if you could 🙂
Thanks for sharing, Gianna!
Thanks Carlos!
Excellent points, Carlos. The title alone made me want to read this post. I have quite a few friends who have indie published and don’t care WHAT others think because they’re making VERY GOOD money. More power to them. I don’t think I’m either a snob, or snark. I think writers have more power than ever before and that’s a very good thing.
I agree, Marcy. This is our time. Let’s see how many of us can grab it and run!
Exactly, Carlos. Forget the snobs and the snarks and make a difference out there!
Amen 🙂
Opal the second grader loved the first and third Thursdays of the month, because that was when her class went to the art room. On the third Thursday of March, the art teacher asked everyone to draw pictures of cowboys. Opal was excited because cowboys wear cowboy hats (and cowgirls wear cowgirl hats). Opal knew that she liked hats.
As Opal drew great, big, beautiful hats on her Westerners, the art teacher walked around the room to check on everyone’s work. Stopping behind Opal, the teacher said that the hats were not “to scale.” She said “Opal, you are drawing the hats too big. They need to fit the people and not overpower them.” So Opal started over and drew appropriately sized hats on her unamused cowpeople.
What Opal didn’t realize on this third Thursday of this particular March was that her well-intentioned art teacher represented only one opinion. Opal’s family moved to Texas a few months later. It turned out that there are a whole bunch of people who appreciate the value of a statement hat. And even more people, Opal learned as she grew older, who applaud the creative efforts of someone who just really likes hats.
Aw, this was cute! And I’m glad she found people who respected her art.
“What Opal didn’t realize on this third Thursday of this particular March
was that her well-intentioned art teacher represented only one opinion.”
Exactly. One opinion. I think we forget that.
Thanks for sharing, Caroline!
cute I like the idea of large hats. Yes styles affect different people differently.
Good Story! It reminds me of Lyle Lovett’s song “Don’t touch my Hat.”
There is a saying among stage directors , “There are no bad plays, just bad actors”. Maybe for writers who deal with snarks and snobs it could be, “There are no bad books, just poor readers”. Or not……..
I might not go that far 🙂
Thanks for chiming in, Steven.
I love you guys. I know I’ve been pretty busy and haven’t been on here much, but I still love you!
The feeling is mutual 🙂
Lily gazed out her bedroom window. last time she had sat here, the day before, shed been crying. today she stared across the stream blankly, where she had often skipped rocks, alone, like she was today.
living with her grandmother had its good side, among them the endless wealth the now eighty-one year old had earned in her younger years. What Lily appreciated more was that the woman did love her, and wasn’t what lily had thought her to be when she had first come here six months ago, when her parents had suddenly died. The fear she had felt that day had soon been replaced with the comfort of a kind old lady, who gave her everything she could hope for.
Grandmother wasn’t the problem, wasn’t the one who had made her cry so often. It was Brett. Brett was taller than everyone else she knew, and he was only sixteen, and he never ceased to find some way to criticize her. He disapproved of her friends, her grades, which were seemingly perfect compared to his, but one thing especially.
Singing. It was the one thing that made her happier than anything in the world. She got it from her mother, she knew, for she could distinctly remember her mother’s voice ringing out while she did housework. And she, like her mother, would sing every chance she got, and any time Brett was around, he would criticize her to no end. Most days she would stop singing and end up crying, but today was different. This morning at church the preacher had said one thing, just one, that had made her think of everything differently. ” Do not let anyone look down on you because you are young, but set an example for the believers in God in speech, in conduct, in love, in faith and in purity.”
She had asked her grandmother, who knew nothing of Brett’s ways, if that included her singing. “Yes,” she’d smiled, “It does.”
Lily smiled now, knowing that even if no one else would like her singing, One did. “Jesus, I’ll sing for you anyway.”
She stepped out of her room and stared quietly singing. Brett came out of his room, “Seriously? Do you ever stop?” She smiled, “No.” and skipped down the hall.
This is my first ‘write practice’. I’m not sure it’s that good, but it’s fun to do it! Thanks!
I loved how you showed her boosted confidence and the freedom that can come through singing. There is definitely truth in that. Keep up the practice. 🙂
Thanks!
I kicked the sand and looked out at the sky. It was blue with orange coulds striped across it. The sun was a fiery ball that playfully lay half behind the hill, and the other half shooting brilliant hot orange rays across the hills and clouds.
I sat under an apple tree. They were small like apricots and had a sour juicy taste. That was all it would be though. Never sweet like many of its counter parts. In many ways people probably wonder if the tree was deformed. But sometimes my family still eats them. They still have another tree right in their back yard with big sweet fruit. And they go in groves for those apples.
1 hour ago: I had just printed out my paper. And then sat at the kitchen table. I looked it over lovingly, feeling the smooth black print under my fingertips. My grandma walked up and asked me what I had there. “It’s a short story I just finished. I’m going to send it in to a writing contest.”
“Oh bring it here.” I carried the paper to her. She grabbed and sat down in a big padded chair that frayed on the arms from use in the living room. She held her glasses over her eyes and squinted as she read. Her brows tightened, and her lips moved as she read. I looked at her lips following where she was in my story.
I was standing hunched forward, my hands on my knees so that I could see what part of the writing she was on. I watched carefully the expressions on her face looking for approval or disapproval, but there was no obvious feeling come off her.
She repeated the same sentence on her lips again and then again, wrinkling her nose in confusion. I tightened my face and wondered. But then shook her head, shaking the sentence loose from her mind and continued. She read 15 minutes until she read the final sentence and lay the paper on her lap and looked back at me. My legs had gone rigid. And I kicked them, shaking them out, until they no longer hurt.
She put down her glasses and looked up to me. Her eyes were round globes that seemed like they needed to be pushed a hairlash more back into her sockets. “Thank you for showing this to me. You have a good start of a story. And I hope you keep continuing to practice.” she said.
“Thank you.” I said. The warmth of success shined on me. I felt like jumping up, and maybe leaving my skin behind.
“But.” she says drawing out that word slowly. I stopped my internal joy and my eyes roll back towards her.
“You still have a long ways to go and when I say long I mean a long ways to go.” she said. My heart ached and dropped way down somewhere, not sure if I can find it and pick it up. I tried to maintain my eyes at her, but they kept looking down instead and I’d bring them back up to her and they’d drop again.
“Okay.” I said. My back hunched, I take the paper back. I pinch the paper between my fingers, the paper that had become covered in a slick green poison, and set it on the table and snapped away from it.
“I look forward to seeing any other work you have in the future.” I nod my head. “And I wish you the best.” She smiles at me, her face turned up and her teeth showing. As though all the grandma love could drown out what she had just said and kisses on elbows make the cut magically heal up and the pain just go up and away somewhere.
“Yes I will. Thank you.” She grabs a book on the coffee table and opens it at the book bookmark.
I step out the back door.
Now:
I pick one of the small apples off the tree. I sit down, looking at it. It is malformed, humped at one side and scrawny at the other. The scrawnly side has a black hole in it as though some bug came in and sucked at it. Sucking all the symetry and beauty out of it. I took a big bite of the undersized thing. A drop of juice rolled on my lip. Its sourness hits me and I want to spit it out. Its juice seems to be a misadvertisement as the liquid had a drying affect. I swallow and the liquid burns my throat. It rolls down in my stomach, the sourness seems to disturb my insides and I am having trouble keeping my stomach still.
I chuck the rest of the apple over the hill. Watch it bounce down the hill till it rests behind a rock. There it will shrivel and rot. I doubt any ants will go to it when there are better apples just a little ways further.
I stare at the last bits of light before the last ray get’s swallowed by the hill. The sky is still light, but then it will begin again its time of slow darkening. I walk back home as I know my mom doesn’t want me out after dark. And I walk into my bedroom and sit at my computer desk. I open up my story and write it over again.
I read this to my husband but it wasn’t clear to him that the boy had learned that criticism doesn’t matter. I don’t state this in an obvious way but I see the boy as almost giving up ever writing again, and his writing and fixing the story at the end is my way of saying he decides to keep going.
In the midst of mid-june, when atoms are the most excited and happy, in their prime, of the future beholden to them in this great life…..one little atoms sets foot into the ground of the Shimura household and instantly joins into the herds and herds of heat molecules and voice emitting waves.
Indeed, the Sakimura household was loud and crowded, it was to be expected for their annual family fang-bang. A most treasured custom handed down by….well, it was really important.
“Jinta!!”Shinji hollered over the conjoining clamor of his various relative while managing to efficiently distribute the cold drink on the catering platter he was carrying. “Bring out the popsicles!”
“Coming!” Jinta shouted back, and sliding out the portable cooler inside the fridge. “And stop screaming!” There was enough noise in the house as it was.
“Jinta nii-san,” Jinta looked down to see the cute face of his cousins daughter. “Can I have a popsicle now?”
Jinta smiled, and digged through the cooler. “A blue one for the sky.”
“Hummped,” Grabbing the pop by the stick, examining it, the girl stopped her feet. “But I want a GREEN ONE!”
“but that;s the only color I have…”
“Meannnie!” The girl shouted and ran off.
“Eh…” Jinta’s smile faltered, and with no time for disappointment to settle, one of his cousins grabbed the cooler and dragged it onto the porch.
“Give me a red one!”
“Purple for me!”
“Do you have cherry flavor?”
….but they’re all green!!!
Panicking, Jinta watched as his family grumbled and shouted profanities at the limiting colors of the popsicles.
Shinji grumbled as he walked over to his brother, and in his Oh-So-Superior voice said, “What is wrong with you! Give you one job and it’s like-”
His blood boiling, Jinta picked up the nearest pot and smashed it into the ground. “Stop being mean! Your all the ones who sent me on a popsicle hunt at 12 pm! Just be grateful I got some! Bastards!”
Surprised, Shinji stepped sideways of his brother….
“Gee, no need to get hyped,” he mumbled.
Jinta glared at him and spun around to go back into the house.
“Um…Did we over do it?” Jane, his third cousin asked from besides him.
He shrugged, “Ah, well, he’ll get over it.”
This just popped into my Facebook page, so sorry for being late to the party. To answer the first question: I’m a snarker. I’ve gotten in trouble at weddings, funerals, baptisms, graduations, etc.
However, I try to be as welcoming to my fellow writers as I can. I hope this is a good illustration of that (in the comments anyway): http://beginingsinwriting.wordpress.com/2013/11/14/i-have-a-confession-to-make/
Regarding critiques: I think it depends on what kind it is. Some are merely to rip apart your work, for whatever reason. Others will help you improve your work, if you’re willing to learn. I try to make mine as workable for the author as I can, and are usually solicited. if it’s already published, I try to reach out via e-mail, and offer suggestions. I also try to preface them with, “These are just my opinions. I hope some are of use. If not, toss ’em.”