Am I the Asshole For Abandoning My First Love, Fantasy?

Hey there, howdy!

Welcome back to another enormously entertaining episode of Am I the Literary Asshole?, an advice column that runs on Steel Reserve and Writer’s Tears. I’m your host, Kristen Arnett, and I’m about to head off to the great state of Texas. That’s right, I’m leaving Florida behind (for just a little while). I’ll be the visiting writer this fall at the Michener Center at UT Austin! Don’t worry, I’ll be back home in December after classes end. But while I’m there working, I’m looking forward to hanging out with all my Texas buddies. Do you think they greet you with a six-pack of Lone Star when you cross over the state line? Much to consider.

This column sails on, however! How about we crack open a couple of cold ones? Let’s cheers and say bon voyage, Dad! Safe travels!

Bottom’s up, here’s our first question of the day:

1)  Dear Dad, I used to be an avid fantasy reader and writer. Then two years ago, I fell out of love with the genre quite suddenly and unexpectedly. The change seems to be permanent. I’ve read barely any speculative fiction since then, and honestly, I can’t see myself ever going back. As a reader, I’ve fallen in love with contemporary and historical fiction as well as memoirs and narrative nonfiction. As a writer, though, I’m struggling. I’ve spent most of the last two years working on a fantasy novel. At first I still loved it, despite my changing reading tastes, then I continued to work on it because of the sunk cost fallacy and because my friends, family, and writing group all seemed to genuinely love it (whereas with my previous project, they were encouraging, but I got the sense they didn’t really “get it”).

I finally set it aside six months ago to try to write a contemporary novel. And . . . nothing. All my ideas seem stupid or boring and if I try to write them anyway, they just fizzle out. I don’t know what to do, I’ve never been this stuck before. I’ve tried thinking about what draws me to contemporary novels so that I can replicate that, but what I love about them is the beautiful writing. At least three of my favorite books have really boring sounding premises, and I never would have picked them up if they hadn’t won literary prizes. That’s helpful for me to know as a reader, but not super useful for coming up with story ideas. Should I just go back to writing fantasy, even though I don’t enjoy it? At least I’m confident I can pull that off.

Hello, friend. Thanks for writing in with this one. I’m going to try my best to help.

The first thing I’m going to tell you is that you need to cut yourself some slack. Part of being a writer means being human (it’s reason number 237,823,748 why AI can never replace real art or make any kind of meaningful impact), and being human means we are continually and forever learning new things about ourselves. The late Dorothy Allison once said: “Change, when it comes, cracks everything open.” I believe you are on the precipice of cracking right now. Change is scary, sure. But it’s not necessarily a bad thing.

Your tastes have changed. What you’re interested in has veered from the known path, and now you’re charting unknown territory. Lean into the new. I challenge you to look at this as an opportunity for continued growth. Something in the back of your mind told you that you were done with what you had been working on and thinking about before. Now, your brain is trying to catch up with what you already learned intuitively. To try and force yourself to make some big amazing great huge book project without thinking on it for a while will only cause you frustration and grief.

Instead, allow yourself to wade into what you might make. Glory in the possibilities. Set that old project aside for now—perhaps another version of yourself, a future you, will be the right writer for it—and let yourself consider what you might create. No pressure. No sitting down eagerly and staring at a blank document, hoping to craft the next great American novel. Instead, think about what you like, what you’re interested in, what charms you, what gives you natural curiosity. There is no timeline here. No race to the finish. Luxuriate in it. Be present.

The right project will arrive in due time. Don’t hold yourself to a shape or a deadline. Making art doesn’t mean checking off boxes. It means allowing ourselves the freedom to see what might be and who we could become.

Enjoy the ride. It seems like it’s going to be a hell of a lot of fun.

Maybe it’s the Sagittarius in me, but God, I really love a road trip. Let’s have another beer while I finish packing (and check out our second caller of the day):

2) Hey I’m hoping you can help me here.

I finished a rough draft of a novel last month. I was working on it for about three and one-half years. It took up all my time. Well, last month I typed THE END at the bottom of page 346 and closed the document. 

The problem is that I haven’t been able to open the document since that day. I could open it, but I don’t want to. I guess I’m nervous about what I’ll find. It’s probably not any good. How can I make myself do this?

Buddy, it’s time to rip off the Band-Aid.

You’re nervous about encountering something bad, so you’re not letting yourself celebrate this very cool thing that you’ve done: you finished a draft of a project! That’s amazing!

But because you’re scared it won’t live up to your (very high) expectations, you’ve denied yourself the absolute pleasure of engaging with your work again. This isn’t just something you threw together. You’ve been working on it for literal years! Regardless of how messy the draft is—it will be, inevitably, because every first draft is—it doesn’t mean the project will be bad. You’ve spent a lot of time in this world, building this story, crafting these characters. You know them. Believe that.

You care about this book. And because you care, it also scares you. So you’ve decided that you’ll just let it sit there on the proverbial shelf, collecting dust, all so that it won’t wind up disappointing you.

I hate to have to be the one to tell you this, but by not allowing yourself to open your project and dig back into it, you’re only disappointing yourself. There is no one who’s going to stand over you and make sure you get back to work. Only you can do that.

And the very first step? Clicking open that document.

Close out of this browser and please go write. Thank me later.

Almost out of time (and almost out of beer)!! One last question before we close out for the day:

3) Is there a non-asshole way to tell another writer that you think they’re annoying and that you don’t want to hang out in social settings?

The short answer? No.

You can’t tell someone you think they’re annoying and not come off as an asshole. Them’s the breaks, kid.

But! You can find other places to be when they want to hang out. You can make excuses for why you don’t have time for them. Sooner or later, after several rebuffed attempts to garner your friendship, they’ll get the hint. Will they think you’re an asshole for it? Maybe. But fingers crossed they’ll make some other friends out there who find them charming!

And that’s all the time we have for today, folks. Join me next column when I answer more of your anonymous questions (send them HERE) and I also get into that Lone Star beer.

Deep in the heart of Texas,
Dad

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Are you worried you’re the literary asshole? Ask Kristen via email at AskKristen@lithub.com, or anonymously here.