A couple of years ago, I published a post on the four criteria that make one a writer. Although I can appreciate the differing perspectives offered in the comments, I’m still happy with my description of a writer as someone who edits their work; understands the “rules” (although doesn’t necessarily follow them); has served their time; and has attracted readers beyond their immediate friends and family. Conveniently, this definition of a writer enabled me to claim the title for myself.
I didn’t really consider the word “author”, and certainly not as a stand-alone title (as opposed to “author of” such-and-such a work), until I joined The Society of Authors last summer. Even then, it was because I needed advice on my publishing contract rather than to club together with other “authors” – such an old-fashioned term, I thought, that ought to be abandoned in the way that “artists” have now rebranded themselves as “painters”. That changed when, last month, I attended an event on working with the media, led by the award-winning former BBC TV reporter, Alistair Macdonald.
I didn’t really consider the word “author”, and certainly not as a stand-alone title (as opposed to “author of” such-and-such a work), until I joined The Society of Authors last summer. Even then, it was because I needed advice on my publishing contract rather than to club together with other “authors” – such an old-fashioned term, I thought, that ought to be abandoned in the way that “artists” have now rebranded themselves as “painters”. That changed when, last month, I attended an event on working with the media, led by the award-winning former BBC TV reporter, Alistair Macdonald.
To be fair, I’d been paving my way towards the epiphany I experienced at the workshop, without realising it, for several months. Way back in September, I was able to observe my Inspired Quill stablemate, Tracey Scott Townsend, at a local book signing, where I was impressed with her professional approach to engaging with the public. While I imagined myself holding back, almost apologetic for taking up space in the bookshop, Tracey was able to reach out to potential customers in a positive (but definitely not harassing) manner and elicit their curiosity about what she had to offer.
More recently, Eve Makis, who I met at the launch of her novel The Spice Box Letters (recently longlisted for the Jerwood Fiction Uncovered Prize), allowed me to shadow her at one of her library events. Eve’s message for this novelist-in-waiting was similar to Tracey’s: connect with your audience by making eye contact and addressing them directly, and be confident about the book you’re promoting.
Ah, but how to be confident when you’re quaking inside? How to at least appear to know what you’re talking about?
Ah, but how to be confident when you’re quaking inside? How to at least appear to know what you’re talking about?
Alistair Macdonald recommends treating it as a performance, requiring preparation and practice prior to meeting one’s public (or interviewer), and then perfecting that performance by responding to feedback both during and following the delivery. Preparation entails deciding on the (limited number of) key messages you want to get across and scripting them into an interesting and entertaining story, with beginning, middle and end. Important information needs to be repeated if it is to be remembered by the audience, as well as placed where it will have most impact: at the opening and conclusion of the talk. How you look and how you sound is the vehicle for the content, which should be delivered with energy, enthusiasm and enjoyment (and a smile, even on radio). Knowing your audience will assist engagement, and practising your spiel, rather like editing, will help sharpen up the content and, most importantly, ensure it fits into its allocated time slot.
Although I felt the workshop was geared more towards writers of non-fiction (especially regarding responding promptly to news items related to one’s area of expertise), I found the event inspiring, and I expect I’ll have more to share about it when I come to put in the advice into practice. But what interests me at present is how merely being addressed as “an author” enhanced my belief in my “right” to promote my book.
I don’t know if it’s all those years of being told (often kindly, but not always experienced that way) that one’s writing isn’t good enough that makes me fear being outed as an impostor when I finally get to ask people to buy my book. I don’t know if it’s having to go right back to basics in learning to write fiction that somehow disconnects me from what other skills I might possess. Certainly it was reassuring, in the workshop, to be reminded of the basic psychology of memory in considering what people will take from the presentation. But it also brought back what I learnt fifteen years ago (gulp!) about the nature of authority.
When I was studying organisational consultancy, one of the recurring themes was the problems arising from individuals at all levels of the organisation (and not just management) failing to take up the authority of their roles. I learned to think of authority in terms of, not only the capacity to influence others, but also confidence in carrying out one’s own particular role, however limited that might be. Problems with authority could arise both from organisational structures and from within, stemming from one’s experiences with authority figures in the past. Isn’t it interesting that, unlike the label “writer”, the word “author” has such an overlap with a term associated with power and influence?
In a hierarchical organisation, authority is deemed as coming from managers above, staff below and from within. The world of books is not so rigidly structured, but parallels may still be detected. An author gains authority from “above” in the publisher’s investment in the title (hence the greater complexity for self-published authors and those published by small presses like me) and in the endorsements from more experienced writers in the field. Potential readers will approach our books with an assumption of our right to write them, perhaps with an eagerness to meet “a real author” (even if it’s only me), and it’s our job not to let them down (and, as Claire King points out, these followers will, if we let them, lead other readers into the ring). But most importantly, we authors need to believe in ourselves and conduct our interactions with the public in a way that bears this out.
My definition of a writer, as outlined at the beginning of this post, seems to be dependent on behaviours and outcomes; my developing definition of an author, while certainly dependent upon having a book to be “the author of”, seems to be largely about a state of mind. I’m not sure how much I want to use the title, but I feel I owe it to my novel to harness the authority, however fraudulent that might feel. I’ll let you know how I get on.
Although I felt the workshop was geared more towards writers of non-fiction (especially regarding responding promptly to news items related to one’s area of expertise), I found the event inspiring, and I expect I’ll have more to share about it when I come to put in the advice into practice. But what interests me at present is how merely being addressed as “an author” enhanced my belief in my “right” to promote my book.
I don’t know if it’s all those years of being told (often kindly, but not always experienced that way) that one’s writing isn’t good enough that makes me fear being outed as an impostor when I finally get to ask people to buy my book. I don’t know if it’s having to go right back to basics in learning to write fiction that somehow disconnects me from what other skills I might possess. Certainly it was reassuring, in the workshop, to be reminded of the basic psychology of memory in considering what people will take from the presentation. But it also brought back what I learnt fifteen years ago (gulp!) about the nature of authority.
When I was studying organisational consultancy, one of the recurring themes was the problems arising from individuals at all levels of the organisation (and not just management) failing to take up the authority of their roles. I learned to think of authority in terms of, not only the capacity to influence others, but also confidence in carrying out one’s own particular role, however limited that might be. Problems with authority could arise both from organisational structures and from within, stemming from one’s experiences with authority figures in the past. Isn’t it interesting that, unlike the label “writer”, the word “author” has such an overlap with a term associated with power and influence?
In a hierarchical organisation, authority is deemed as coming from managers above, staff below and from within. The world of books is not so rigidly structured, but parallels may still be detected. An author gains authority from “above” in the publisher’s investment in the title (hence the greater complexity for self-published authors and those published by small presses like me) and in the endorsements from more experienced writers in the field. Potential readers will approach our books with an assumption of our right to write them, perhaps with an eagerness to meet “a real author” (even if it’s only me), and it’s our job not to let them down (and, as Claire King points out, these followers will, if we let them, lead other readers into the ring). But most importantly, we authors need to believe in ourselves and conduct our interactions with the public in a way that bears this out.
My definition of a writer, as outlined at the beginning of this post, seems to be dependent on behaviours and outcomes; my developing definition of an author, while certainly dependent upon having a book to be “the author of”, seems to be largely about a state of mind. I’m not sure how much I want to use the title, but I feel I owe it to my novel to harness the authority, however fraudulent that might feel. I’ll let you know how I get on.
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