Hey there, howdy!
Welcome back to another wildly entertaining installment of Am I the Literary Asshole?, a guidance column fueled by Steel Reserve and Writer’s Tears. I’m here to take you through a new moment in time as we head toward a little Texas detour. The plan is to step away from Florida for a spell because I’ll be the visiting writer this autumn at the Michener Center at UT Austin. Don’t worry, December will bring me back home after classes finish. In the meantime, I’m excited to catch up with my Texan friends. Do you think they greet newcomers with a six-pack of Lone Star as you cross the border? There’s plenty to ponder.
This column keeps rolling, though! How about we crack open a couple cold ones? Let’s toast and bid farewell to Dad’s adventures in travel!
Bottoms up—here comes our first question of the day:
1) Dear Dad, I used to be an avid reader and writer of fantasy. Then, two years ago, I abruptly fell out of love with the genre, and the shift feels permanent. I’ve hardly touched speculative fiction since, and I can’t envision returning to it. As a reader, my passions shifted toward contemporary and historical fiction, memoirs, and narrative nonfiction. As a writer, I’m at a crossroads. I’ve spent most of the past two years working on a fantasy novel. At first I still enjoyed it, even with my changing tastes, but I kept at it due to the sunk cost fallacy and because friends, family, and my writing group seemed to genuinely love it (unlike my previous project, which people encouraged but didn’t entirely “get”).
I finally pushed it aside six months ago in favor of attempting a contemporary novel. And . . . nothing. All my ideas feel dull or silly, and whenever I push forward they fizzle out. I’ve never been so stuck. I tried to analyze what draws me to contemporary books so I could imitate it, but what I adore about them is the exquisite writing. A few of my favorite titles have incredibly ordinary-sounding premises, and I wouldn’t have picked them up if they hadn’t earned literary prizes. That helps me as a reader, but it isn’t much help for generating story ideas. Should I simply go back to writing fantasy, even though it doesn’t bring me joy? At least I’m confident I could pull it off.
Hello, friend. Thanks for sharing this with me. I’ll do my best to help you.
The first thing I want you to hear is to cut yourself some slack. Part of being a writer means being human (that’s reason number 237,823,748 why AI can never replace real art or make any meaningful impact), and humanity means we are forever learning new aspects of ourselves. The late Dorothy Allison once observed, “Change, when it comes, cracks everything open.” I believe you’re teetering on that edge right now. Change is frightening, yes, but it isn’t inherently bad.
Your tastes have shifted. Your interests have veered off the familiar path, and you’re now charting unfamiliar territory. Lean into the new. Consider this as an invitation for ongoing growth. Your inner voice indicated that you were finished with what you had been pursuing, and now your mind is catching up with what you already absorbed intuitively. Forcing yourself into a massive, breathtaking project without giving yourself time to breathe will only bring frustration and sorrow.
Instead, permit yourself to explore what you might create. Revel in the possibilities. Set the old project aside for the moment—perhaps a different version of yourself, a future you, will be the right writer for it—and allow yourself to wonder about what you could bring into existence. No pressure. No rush to sit down and become the next great American novel. Instead, reflect on what you enjoy, what sparks your curiosity, what captures your imagination. There is no deadline here. No race to finish. Savor the process. Be present.
The right project will reveal itself in due time. Don’t demand a specific form or timetable. Creating art doesn’t mean ticking off boxes. It means granting ourselves the freedom to envision what might be and who we might become.
Enjoy the journey. It’s bound to be a thrilling ride.
Perhaps, call it part of my Sagittarius nature, but I adore road trips. Let’s raise another glass while I finish packing (and while we anticipate our second caller of the day):
2) Hey I’m hoping you can help me here.
I completed a rough draft of a novel last month after about three and a half years of work. It dominated my life. Pen down, I typed THE END on page 346 and shut the file.
The trouble is I haven’t opened that document since. I can open it, but I don’t want to. I’m anxious about what I might find. It’s probably not very good. How can I force myself to do this?
Buddy, it’s time to rip off the Band-Aid.
You’re nervous about discovering something disappointing, so you’ve prevented yourself from celebrating this major milestone: you finished a draft after years of effort. That’s remarkable!
Yet because you fear it won’t live up to your own lofty standards, you’ve blocked yourself from revisiting your work. It’s not just a random piece you tossed together; you poured years of life into this world, built these characters, and learned their voices. You care about this book. And that care is precisely what makes you afraid. So you’ve chosen to let it sit on the shelf, gathering dust, because you worry it might fail expectations.
Let me be blunt: by refusing to reopen your project and engage with it again, you’re the one letting yourself down. There’s no supervisor to push you back into the chair—only you can do that.
And the very first step? Click to reopen that document.
Close this browser and, please, go write. You’ll thank me later.
Time is slipping away (and the beer is almost finished)!! One final question before we wrap up for the day:
3) Is there a non-asshole way to tell another writer that you find them annoying and that you’d rather not spend time with them in social settings?
The short answer? No.
There isn’t a way to tell someone they’re irritating without risking coming across as a jerk. That’s the risk, kid.
But here’s a workaround: you can vary your whereabouts when they want to hang out. Make up reasonable excuses for not having time. Sooner or later, after a few repeated declines, they’ll catch the drift. Will they think you’re a jerk for it? Possibly. But hopefully you’ll also help them discover other friends who enjoy their company just as much as you do not seem to.
And that’s all the time we have for today. Tune in next time when I tackle more of your anonymous questions (send them HERE) and, yes, I’ll also dive into that Lone Star beer in good humor.
Deep in the heart of Texas,
Dad
__________________________
Are you worried you’re the literary asshole? Ask via email at AskKristen@lithub.com, or anonymously here.
