I’m Having a Hard Time Saying No: How Can I Be More of a Literary Asshole?

Well, hello there! Welcome back, friends.

You’ve arrived at the very best destination in town. That’s right, everyone’s partying at Am I the Literary Asshole?, an advice column that doesn’t take itself too seriously, but DOES take a wedge of lime with its vodka-cran. I’m your host, Kristen Arnett, and I guess now it’s officially “fall,” though I don’t think anyone told that to the temperature outside. But sure, throw on that snuggly knit sweater and dig out your most stylish jacket! Just make sure to wear them inside, where there’s air conditioning. Don’t want anyone sweating to death on my watch.

Since we’re out here pretending that something festively seasonal is occurring, why not try those weird Cutwaters that are supposedly flavored like pumpkin spice white russians? I can’t imagine they’ll taste any good, but at 13% ABV per can after the first one we probably won’t care about the flavor anymore.

Let get things started, shall we?

1)  Am I wrong for being so frustrated at how reader-focused writer advice has gotten? Lately, it feels that most writing advice is “don’t do x because readers don’t like it” or “readers are tired of x” or “readers love x.” I find this really depressing. First of all, it flattens readers into a monolith. Second, it flattens the relationship between writers and readers to producer/consumer. Third, I’m convinced whenever a large number of people dislike a book, it’s more likely to be a marketing fiasco or a skill issue rather than “readers don’t like x.”

Whenever I try to bring this up with people, they say “well, that’s fine if you want to be a starving artist, but some of us want to make a living as a writer.” I do want to make a living as a writer and I’m not saying that reader experience doesn’t matter. I’m just sick of reader experience being centered to the exclusion of all else.

This is a great question.

I don’t think you’re wrong to feel frustrated. It’s strange to think about writing from the viewpoint of how something might be consumed by others versus writing from a starting point of genuine curiosity. Whenever we sit down to begin something—whether it’s an essay, a short story, a poem, a novel, or even a script—we must consider the fact that first and foremost we are creating art for ourselves. Making things that we want to see out in the world. It’s a private conversation between you and the page. Projects find who they’re meant to find.

There are always going to be people who think of book production as a commodity; those who are wired to consider how they might best “sell” a project. Some of this comes from social media mindsets (algorithms; how others might view us as successful in our given fields/careers), but also it’s just plain capitalism. That sucks to hear, I know, but it’s true.

What I can tell you, dear friend, is that not everyone thinks this way. I certainly don’t. I also think that we can choose which voices we’re going to listen to when it comes to art and its creation. When someone begins speaking to you this way, I think you’re completely within your rights to not pay it much attention or give it much thought beyond a simple “nope.” It’s annoying, sure, but it’s also just one opinion. Not everyone feels this way, and thank God for that!

Having a career and “making a living” isn’t the same thing as making art. Sometimes the two forces might meet (and how wonderful when that strange math happens), but if you’re focused solely on the cash part, you miss out entirely on the point of art: which is to experience beauty, joy, and the entire blessed span of the human experience. You’re absolutely right to be annoyed with this faulty logic, but try to feel the annoyance and then put it aside. It’s a waste of your time, frankly, and you don’t owe those people anything.

I can’t believe I roped us all into drinking these canned syrups. I guess let’s crack open another and gulp it down fitfully! Hopefully our next question will help clear up any bad aftertaste:

2) Dear Dad,

Ever since publishing a book, I’ve received literary requests from people I don’t really know who are trying to become writers. A friend of a relative who “just started researching a book” and wants to talk on the phone to get advice regarding publishers. A woman whose husband spent the pandemic writing his family history and wants help finding an agent. Emails with novel drafts attached. A coffee date that turns out to be an opportunity to hand over a dozens-of-pages unedited essay and ask for feedback.

The requests are sincere, but they consistently feel extravagant and also completely detached from the reality of how writing works, which at least for me entailed years of independently teaching myself to be a better writer, doing thorough internet research about the publishing process, occasionally paying for classes, and trading work with friends at similar stages. I do my best to be gracious, aware that I am fortunate to have a career that a lot of other people aspire to. At the same time, I feel like my approachability is being taken advantage of and my worth grossly undervalued (and their own fledgling talent grossly overestimated). How can I be a little more of an asshole and give these aspiring writers a dose of reality without crushing their dreams?

Oh pal! You are in a tough spot.

Here’s the thing: you’re a nice person. That much is clear! And sometimes when we open our hearts and allow others to utilize our time, they can occasionally take advantage of that kindness. That appears to be the case here. You’ve done nothing wrong, and in fact, I would say you’ve gone out of your way to make other people feel included and helped. But at the end of the day, we’ve all got a finite amount of time on this planet, and you can’t spend all your precious hours assisting acquaintances and strangers who are looking for free editorial and agenting assistance.

What will benefit you moving forward is to have a clear plan of action in place for when these types of scenarios inevitably crop up. Someone bombards you with a stack of un-asked for pages at a coffee date? Thank that person profusely, wish them luck with their endeavor, and then tell them that you’re currently swamped with your own edits so you don’t have time to take on additional work at this moment. Remind them that you are, in fact, a working writer. When people send you unsolicited drafts attached to emails? Don’t reply to those missives. When someone wants to talk on the phone about publishers? Tell them you’re too busy at the moment. Because that’s work, friend. And while we might be willing to do small favors for people out of the goodness of our hearts, it can’t be done 24/7. It’s completely fine to make “no” the keyword for yourself.

Anyone who is actually a friend will understand that and respect your boundaries. These all sound like people who are near strangers, so I would treat them as such and respectfully decline.

You’ve got this, buddy!

Oh, I’m shivering in fright thinking of drinking another of these monstrous concoctions. What do you say we split the final can over ice and call this beverage on account of sugar explosion? And cheers to our final question of the day!

3) Is it asshole behavior to wait three months to reply to an email? [Ed. note: lol absolutely not] I’m not going to name any names (though I could), but there are a slew of writers, agents, and editors out there who look at correspondence with the kind of apathy that gives me hives. It’s rude to not send a reply, in my opinion. Your thoughts?

It is definitely not polite to wait three months to reply to an email, but I would say that many of us in the literary community have been on both ends of this conundrum. There are a lot of people that need a response, and sometimes things just fall through the cracks. If this is the first time this has happened with this person and they’re someone you considered a friend, I would continue to give them some grace here. Quite often these emails need specific questions answered as well, and there are plenty of times when we just don’t know what that answer might be yet.

Considering the fact that most editors and agents are receiving a slew of email every day, I would say that it’s inevitable that replies are going to take longer than expected. Even if answering email is part of their job, it’s definitely only one small part of what they need to get done on a daily basis. If they had to make email their number one priority, nothing else would ever get done.

Yes, I see what you’re saying about being polite, and yes, I think sometimes people choose not to reply at all (they “ghost,” to use the parlance), but responses that require more than a yes or a no take time. Whenever I feel pressed because someone hasn’t gotten back to me when I’d like them to, I remember the times I forgot to reply and I cut them (and myself) a break. Hey, we’ve all been there.

And that’s all for today, folks (thank goodness, I couldn’t drink another one of those canned drinks without dying). Join me next time when I answer more of your anonymous questions (send them to me here, folks) and I hopefully manage to find us a beverage that doesn’t kill us all.

Sick to my stomach here,
Dad

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