Richard Powers wrote most of his newest novel in bed, using voice recognition software. Junot Diaz writes in the bathroom, sitting on the edge of the tub. To write “Lowboy,” John Wray wrote for up to six hours a day sitting in subway cars. The Wall Street Journal’s Weekend Journal recently reported on 11 well-known authors about how they create, and—surprise—none of them merely sit at a computer and type away. (See the article here.) Many of the 11 initially write in longhand, or on notecards, before they transfer the work to the computer.

The one thing writers like Margaret Atwood, Hilary Mantel, Kazuo Ishiguro and the others do have in common is that they revise what they’ve written—not just revise in the sense that most writers consider the term, where they write a draft and go over it a couple of times—but over and over. Orhan Pamuk says he writes the first line of his books 50 to 100 times. Others, like Diaz and Ishiguro cut and rewrite hundreds of pages. That’s rather amazing, considering what fabulous writers they are.

Not every writer, especially those new at the craft, believes this approach is necessary. I admit, I sure didn’t when I first started writing regularly. But as I practiced more, and took more time with my work, that changed drastically. In a novel I completed back in May, the first chapter took ten versions, and that’s not even counting the at least dozen additional rewrites that I didn’t bother to save as new versions. On average, I would say I revised each of the 17 chapters about 10-15 times.

The revising helps. With each version the continuity of what I am writing becomes stronger, the characterization deeper and clearer. The language is improved as well. My early drafts tend to be a bit wordy, so this is especially important for me.

Someone once said writing is revising, and whether you like to do it or not, it’s true. I haven’t gone so far as to grab a copy of a story and sit on the edge of the tub to edit it, but if it works for Junot Diaz, well, maybe it’s worth a try.

Long ago, in a faraway place, a writer wrote. He wrote and wrote, and when he was done with his book, a kindly agent sold it to a generous publisher, who printed thousands of copies and publicized the book so the people would know about it and purchase this wonderful work.

That fairy tale was then. This is now: http://www.newyorker.com/humor/2009/10/19/091019sh_shouts_weiner

The article is funny, but it’s also largely true. Today writers, especially new writers, are expected to handle the majority of their publicity efforts, even before they’ve been published. Personally, I spend two or more hours a day either blogging, commenting on others’ blogs (which theoretically increases traffic to my blog), working on book reviews to get my name out in the field, or other possibly platform-building efforts.

Unfortunately I’m one of those people who has to get the little tasks out of the way before I work on the big project (my latest novel), so I sometimes find the day is too far gone to get into the mood to write. Clearly, I need to reprioritize. I’m trying to learn to blog at night to clear the day for the creativity I need to write well. That didn’t happen today.

I can hardly wait until I get a book deal—I’ll be so busy publicizing, I may never write again!

A few days after writing my “sour grapes” post on who actually reads your submissions, Poets & Writers ran a column by Benjamin Percy on perseverance amid the tidal wave of rejections most writers receive. Although he doesn’t get into first readers or the process by which stories are chosen for publication, he does make a strong point about not allowing rejections to stop you from submitting.

Percy uses a boxing metaphor—Rocky Balboa, in fact—to make his case. It helps, he intimates, to have a pugnacious and competitive attitude about being published. You must keep in mind that most literary journals that are worth being published in receive thousands of submissions per year, sometimes per month, so that your odds of having your story accepted, even if it is a stellar piece, are minimal. His own story, “In the Rough,” was rejected thirty-nine times before being accepted, and eventually was selected as an Honorable Mention by Salman Rushdie for the 2008 Best American Short Stories.

In P&W’s monthly feature, “The Practical Writer,” Percy continues the boxing imagery:

I have a friend from grad school who gave up on an extraordinary story after a single rejection; I’m not surprised, but I’m sorry to report that he’s no longer writing. Others aren’t quite so sensitive, but after five rejections, seven, ten, they’re usually ready to throw in the towel. Each SASE that arrives in your mailbox, I know, is like a fist to the face. But you’ve got to see through the blood—you’ve got to keep breathing raggedly through those broken ribs—you’ve got to remember the thirty-ninth rejection.

There are so many reasons that SASE might have shown up in your mailbox. Sometimes it’s because the story wasn’t strong enough, but sometimes it isn’t. Regardless, you must develop around your heart a callus the size of a speed bag.

I have always understood this advice and have tried to follow it—sort of. I’ve had periods where I’ve sent out reams of stories, but also months where I’ve sent out maybe two or three. No more. I’m going hardcore now. A couple of weeks ago I sent out fifty submissions. Already have five rejections. And I’m working on the next batch.

If perseverance is what they want (in addition to great writing, of course), perseverance is what they’ll get.

Ed. Note: An interview with Salman Rushdie is in the Paris Review.

I received three rejections in the mail today. Make that three more rejections. It’s not so much being rejected that disappointments, it’s being rejected so soon after submitting.

Usually, the longer a literary journal holds a submission before responding, the better the writer’s chances of it being published, the theory being that the story is making it past the first rounds of readers and is in the very small pile under final consideration by the editors. A story that is declined quickly, as were these three that I sent out a couple of weeks ago, likely means it was canned on first reading.

I often wonder, who are these first readers? It’s something literary journals never discuss. In their pages, and in seminars, the editors of lit journals talk about their preferences and literary philosophies. But the truth is, your story is not subjected to those parameters unless it gets past that first round or two of readers. And if those people don’t hold the same philosophy, or have the same level of literary sophistication, it’s quite possible it didn’t receive a fair reading.

I need to point out here that my writing ego is not so large as to think my rejections were unwarranted. And I fully understand that journals receive so many submissions that some kind of reading process is necessary for their operation. But I’d feel much better about my submissions if I knew what (or who) I was actually submitting to. Are the first readers freshman creative writing students? Grad students? People who responded to an advertisement? Someone’s grandmother? Do they have any prior experience working for a lit journal? Are they qualified or are they just helping out? Have they been published themselves?

That fact that today’s rejections all came from student-run publications was not lost on me. And I can’t help imagining my work being snubbed by some giggly nineteen-year-old who reads People magazine, watches Hanna Montana and just really, really, really wanted to be on the staff of the college journal, and took a glance at my story and decided she just didn’t “get it.”

Tell me it isn’t possible and I’ll shut up. Or maybe tell me the truth about how lit journals are run and whose standards are truly deciding what stories make it.

Many in the literary community were saddened this past week to hear of the imminent closing of Tri-Quarterly, the national literary magazine published at Northwestern University. They will publish their last print issue in the spring. Back in May, we heard reports that the New England Review, another literary world giant, is in serious danger of being discontinued by Middlebury College.

The simple explanation is that these publications cost too much to operate and print, particularly in a world that is moving swiftly and continuously to digital content. If that’s true, expect many more to follow down the path of closure or digitalization.

This is especially bad news for many of the aging baby boomer generation, who grew up with printed books and magazine, and still prefer the look, feel and portability of printed matter over lugging an electronic device around just to read a story or chapter on a screen we can barely see, using keys we can barely operate. We are uncomfortable using technology to replace functional simplicity. It wasn’t broke—why did they have to fix it?

Most of us still have 20 to 30-plus years of reading (and spending on reading material) left in us, so the move to digital, and whether us older folks will fight it or acquiesce, will be interesting to watch. Personally, although I spend six to ten hours a day on the computer writing and researching (and other, far less productive tasks—I admit it), I still much prefer the feel of a book or magazine in my hands when I’m reading.

I’m still part of the online community of the Northwest Institute of Literary Arts, where I received my MFA, and much of our discussion centers on the future of publishing and how writers will have to adapt to changing modes of content delivery—even more important is what that means to our rate of pay, although we are fairly sure of one thing, that it will be less. The corporate world is all about reducing costs, and writers are one of them.

So if you’d like to see at least some of the better literary journals continue in their present form, there’s only one thing to do—subscribe to a few. As an assistant editor for one, Fifth Wednesday Journal, I’m amazed at the number of stories submitted by writers who’ve never bothered to read it. If half of the writers who submit to literary journals bought an issue, and if only a quarter took a subscription, I’ll bet most of these publications would be in no danger of failing. Pick your faves, and if you can afford it, send them a check for a year’s worth. If you’re one of the many missing out on the great stories, poetry and essays these publications contain, check a few out at your local library or bookstore.

I digress tonight in the interest of the arts in general, and opera in particular.

How desperate to make money is the Detroit Opera House? My wife and I attended “Phantom of the Opera” last night, and while it was an excellent production, we were appalled that now, in addition to inconsiderate talkers, coughers and seat kickers, we have to deal with people eating and drinking during the performance, because the house now offers popcorn, pretzels, candy—and get this—beer, for sale and happily permitted in the theater. So now we get crunching, belching and my neighbor’s popcorn breath in addition to the other distractions.

Apparently in the never-ending quest to make a buck, no potential source of revenue is overlooked. But is this opera? For $200-plus for two seats, we shouldn’t have to put up with so much just to enjoy the show. It’s tough enough handling the people who don’t know the difference between the theater and their living rooms. It would help if we could believe that management is on our side. But by condoning a chow hall atmosphere in what should be a semi-reserved setting, it’s clear where the Opera’s priorities lay.

What’s next, hot dogs and pizza? Hey guys, this isn’t a football game. It’s the opera. If that doesn’t mean anything to you, we’ll spend our money somewhere else.

A writer friend of mine commented recently about how there’s nothing quite like a writer’s hope—no matter how many times a writer is rejected, no matter what the critics or the group says about the latest piece, there is always something for a writer to look forward to—another outlet, another new journal that just might print the story, another agent or publisher to whom you can submit the novel.

That’s me in the last instance. This afternoon I sent the box with the ms to another agent. That was only after I’d been rejected by the first agent and did another revision on the entire book after she made a somewhat disparaging comment about the writing. Although I’m optimistic this time, I’m already thinking about where to query next if she says no. There’s a friend of a friend who knows an agent, and there’s this agent I found in a magazine who doesn’t take historical fiction exactly, but he did sell a novel that had one of the same words in the title … that sort of thing.

Maybe that’s what keeps some writers going, the knowledge that there is always another possibility. It’s a bit of an obsession, a drug of sorts, that keeps us coming back for another shot at being published (read: vindicated, validated).

In a class on the Craft of Fiction for which I’m assisting the instructor (Kathleen Alcalá, an excellent historical novelist, by the way), we’re currently discussing Brenda Ueland’s If You Want to Write. She makes a case for writing not for monetary reward or recognition, but for the satisfaction that the art brings to the individual. If only it could work that way. Since we live in a market economy, our value as writers is dependent on our ability to be published (unless, of course, you’re independently wealthy). Even art has been turned into a competition, with thousands of hopeful writers vying to fill a few hundred or so places in lit journals, and a few dozen slots for novels. The best we can do is to try to separate ourselves from the business aspects of literature when we sit down at the keyboard, but that’s not always easy to do, since those business aspects are now so much a part of the writer’s life—so much more than when Ueland published her book in 1939.

I recently was accepted as an assistant editor for Fifth Wednesday Journal (http://www.fifthwednesdayjournal.com/), an excellent lit publication out of Lisle, Illinois. My duties include reading some of the hundreds of fiction submissions they get each month.

It’s not until you undertake such a task that you begin to understand the mindset of people who are just beginning to write. An overwhelming percentage of stories appear to be written by people whose exposure to literature has been limited to bodice rippers, comic books and People magazine.

I kid you not. Here’s a smattering from today’s slush pile. The names have been withheld to protect the guilty.

“She smiled the first smile I’d seen on her face that wasn’t tinged with sadness.”

“Tom sat on a stool, leaning against the doorway of the alpaca house in a phantasmagoric, half-sleep haze.”

“Tom was no stranger to such hard-ons. Like the alpaca killer, those hard-ons usually struck at night.” (That’s from the same story as above, but I couldn’t resist.)

“He treated Oedipus the way a giant would a mosquito: small but threatening.”

Honest—I do not make these up. I couldn’t.

These examples are illustrations of work by writers who actually believe that such awkward, pretentious or absurd sentences are good writing. How do they get that idea? Simple—they read crap all their lives instead of good, thoughtful, creative writing, like maybe a National Book Award winner once in a while instead of books written on Twitter. There are many reasons for this, but I’ll discuss those in future blogs. For now, suffice it to say that the marketing oligarchs who dictate taste and what passes for intelligence in our society have a vested interest in keeping the bulk of the population stupid.

I’ve written before about how important and difficult it is to encourage beginning writers. No service is performed for the literary community by alienating potential readers (read: people who may someday pay to read our stuff) by telling them they are clueless about writing. This only makes them resentful non-readers who vegetate in front of the television and continue to believe they could have been writers except that they were misunderstood by a clique of snobbish eggheads.

They want to write, at least for the moment, and believe they have something to say. But how to be encouraging to someone who so obviously needs years more experience before anything s/he writes is worthy of publication. How do we get these kids to give writing another try, to make the next story a little better without ridiculing the last one? (Which I have done above, but at least I didn’t name names.)

Somewhere, somehow, we need to slip a good piece of writing onto their reading lists. I don’t mean force-feed them classics they wouldn’t understand (although reading the classics has many rewards for those who are ready for them). But find a way to get examples that will open their eyes to the possibilities of literature—something like a short story by Junot Diaz or Barry Yourgrau—in among the trash that has allowed them to believe that self-indulgent bombast is good writing.

I’ve always been a fairly confident writer. Back in college, when I was editor of the school paper, my assistant editor used to refer to me with, “Where I go, ego.” It was mostly a joke (I wasn’t the complete snob you might think), but it was an accurate assessment of how I viewed my journalism.

Of my fiction, however, I was not so sure. A few years later I was in an undergrad creative writing class, and did well enough that my professor asked me to join her personal writing group. I had written what I thought were some good stories for the class, but when it was my turn to submit to the new group, I had nothing. I wrote a story anyway, and it was, admittedly, awful. The members had no problem letting me know it. It may be an exaggeration, but I remember the next meeting as something of a feeding frenzy—the same kind of treatment, by the way, that the class had given some writers who turned in flawed stories. The humiliation was enough that I never went to another meeting—not for more than twenty years. I remained in journalism and eventually parlayed that into my own communications business before selling it and getting back into fiction.

I’m a lot more confident about the fiction now. I still write the occasional clunker, but like a pitcher who gives up eight runs in the first inning, my attitude is “Okay, I blew that one, but I’ll get ‘em next game.”

The difference? Age and experience no doubt, but also a baseline confidence. You can read that as “ego” if you like. But you’ve got to have it if you want to write. I’ve read several books about writing, and they all say to learn how to take criticism, to accept the good and let the rest bounce off. But they don’t talk about the writer’s ego, that fundamental value that keeps you writing no matter how badly your last story was savaged, because, damn it, you know you can do it. If you don’t have a strong enough ego about your writing, eventually the criticism will get to you, because people (especially other writers), love to be critical (see my other posts on criticism for more on this).

For much of the past year, a few writer friends and I ran our own literary web site, called Third Reader. It was a unique journal in that we provided feedback to writers for every submission. Each of us was tired of receiving those banal, sickeningly politically-correct rejections slips (. . . don’t take this insulting rejection form personally, but we want nothing to do with you . . .), so we felt it our literary duty to challenge the paradigm and make writers feel appreciated by at least offering some constructive criticism.

As long as the number of submissions remained low, it was possible. Many of the writers we corresponded with, even those who were rejected, expressed their appreciation for the dialogue we initiated. We were able to do this because a friend designed a site that allowed editors to communicate directly with writers and each other in private.

We began to think we might have something—a way to change the literary world that would encourage writers, and rip away the curtain that conceals journal editors behind a seeming facade of anonymous pomposity.

But it couldn’t go on. While submissions grew, the number of editors on staff dwindled. And the percentage of stories and poems that were of publishable quality remained the same. That meant more and more bad writing for fewer readers to slog through. Worse, it meant trying to come up with new ways to say “keep learning, keep trying,” when what we increasingly wanted to say was, “your submission sucks.”

After three issues, we closed down the site.

It’s a few months later, and I am now an assistant editor for Fifth Wednesday Journal, one of the better publications in the literary world. Our editorial structure is more traditional. We simply read and either reject or approve and pass on to the next level. The volume of poor writing we receive dictates that it can really be no other way. So many stories are from people who have an idea of what it’s like to create fiction, but are clearly years away from having command of their craft. As much as I’d like to help them to do better, it’s simply too much effort.

Did Third Reader fail? Yes and no. Yeah, we closed the site, but the idea of communication among writers and editors is still a good one in my opinion. The technology makes it possible. But it would also take a large enough staff of editors so the reading and commenting load is not overwhelming. And that means having more people interested and dedicated to making literature a larger part of our culture. But of course, that’s not going to happen as long as new, less confident writers continue to receive impersonal rejections, because they’ll never feel part of the literary community.