Well, hello there! Welcome back, friends.
You’ve arrived at the prime stop in town for blunt literary guidance with a wink of lime in its vodka-cran. I’m the host of this column, and I suppose autumn has officially arrived, even if the temperature outside isn’t taking the hint. Slip into a snug knit and pull out your best jacket—though keep it indoors where the air conditioner won’t let anyone melt on my watch.
Since we’re in the mood to pretend something seasonally festive is happening, maybe sample those odd Cutwaters that promise a pumpkin-spice-flavored white Russian. I doubt they’ll taste great, but after the first can, the flavor becomes less important than the buzz—around 13% ABV per can, after all.
Shall we begin?
1) Am I wrong for feeling so irritated by how writer-advice has become reader-obsessed? Lately it feels like most guidance says “don’t do X because readers won’t like it” or “readers are tired of X” or “readers adore X.” This line of thinking depresses me. First, it trims readers down to a single, uniform crowd. Second, it reduces the writer-reader relationship to producer-and-consumer. Third, I suspect when a lot of people dislike a book, it’s more often a marketing misfire or a craft issue than a sign that “readers don’t like X.”
Whenever I bring this up, people tell me, “well, that’s fine if you want to be a starving artist, but some of us want to earn a living as writers.” I do want to earn a living and I’m not denying that the reader’s experience matters. I’m just tired of it being treated as the sole arbiter of value.
This is a thoughtful question.
I don’t think you’re wrong to feel frustrated. It’s odd to measure writing by how it might be consumed rather than by a spark of curiosity at the start. Whenever we sit down to begin a project—an essay, a short story, a poem, a novel, or even a screenplay—we must remember that first and foremost we are creating art for ourselves. We’re composing a private conversation with the page, a thing we hope to share with others someday, and projects tend to find their own audience in time.
There will always be folks who view book-making as a commodity; who instinctively calculate how to “sell” a project. Some of this comes from social-media mindsets (algorithms; how others might measure success in our fields), but a portion is simply capitalism. It’s not what I’d choose to believe, but it’s true.
What I can tell you is that not everyone shares this mindset. I don’t. And I believe we can choose which voices to heed when it comes to art and its making. When someone starts talking like this to you, you’re fully within your rights to shrug it off or respond with a simple “nope.” It’s annoying, sure, but it’s just one opinion. Not everyone thinks this way, and thank goodness for that!
Having a career and “making a living” aren’t the same thing as making art. Sometimes the two align (and how marvelous when it happens), but if you chase only money, you’ll miss the point of art: to experience beauty, joy, and the wide spectrum of human life. It’s fair to be irritated by the faulty logic, but feel the annoyance and then set it aside. You don’t owe those folks anything.
I can’t believe we’ve made it through another round of these syrupy beverages. Let’s crack open a fresh one and press on. May our next question clear the sour aftertaste:
2) Dear Dad,
Ever since I published a book, I’ve started receiving requests from people I barely know who want free advice on how to become writers. A relative’s friend who “just started researching a book” and wants to chat about publishers on the phone. A person’s spouse who spent the pandemic drafting a family history and seeks help finding an agent. Emails carrying unfinished drafts. A coffee date that becomes a chance to hand over dozens of pages of edits and ask for input.
The intentions are sincere, but the demands feel excessive and strangely detached from how writing actually works—years of teaching myself, researching publishing processes online, occasionally paying for classes, and trading work with peers at similar stages. I try to be gracious, aware I’m fortunate to have a career many aspire to. Yet I sense my openness is being exploited and my value underestimated (while their own budding talent is overestimated). How can I be a bit more blunt and offer these aspiring writers a reality check without crushing their dreams?
Oh friend, you’re in a tough spot.
Here’s the thing: you’re a kind person, and that comes through clearly. Sometimes when we open our lives to others, they absorb that generosity. That seems to be what’s happening here. You haven’t done anything wrong; in fact, you’ve gone out of your way to make people feel welcome and assisted. But at the end of the day, our time is finite, and you can’t spend every minute helping acquaintances and strangers with free editorial and agenting help.
Moving forward, set up a clear plan for these inevitabilities. If someone dumps unrequested pages during a coffee meet, thank them warmly, wish them luck, and explain that you’re currently swamped with your own edits and can’t take on extra work. Remind them you are, in fact, a working writer. If someone sends unsolicited drafts by email, don’t reply. If someone wants to discuss publishers, explain you’re too busy. Because that’s work too. We may do small favors from kindness, but not 24/7. It’s perfectly fine to make “no” your default.
Anyone who really considers you a friend will understand and respect your boundaries. Treat these individuals as more like acquaintances and decline politely.
You’ve got this, friend!
Oh, I’m dreading another one of these monstrous drinks. How about we split the last can over ice and call it a sugar-fueled finish? Here’s to our final question of the day!
3) Is it asshole behavior to wait three months to reply to an email? [Ed. note: absolutely not] I won’t name names (though I could), but plenty of writers, agents, and editors treat correspondence with a startling lack of urgency. Is delaying a reply ever acceptable, or is it plain rude?
Waiting three months to respond isn’t polite, but many of us have found ourselves on both sides of this dilemma. People need replies, and sometimes things slip through the cracks. If this is a first-time slip and the person is someone you’d call a friend, extend a little grace. Some messages require specific questions, and sometimes we don’t yet know the right answer.
Given that editors and agents field enormous volumes of email daily, it’s almost inevitable that replies take longer than planned. Even when replying is part of their job, it’s only one small slice of what they must do every day. Yes, I understand the impulse to be courteous, and yes, some people ghost. But responses that require more than a simple yes or no take time. When I feel pressed by delayed replies, I remember times I forgot to reply myself and cut everyone some slack. We’ve all been there.
And with that, we wrap up for today (thank goodness—I wouldn’t survive another one of those sugary drinks). Join me next time as I tackle more anonymous questions (send them here, folks) and, hopefully, locate a beverage that doesn’t feel like a sugar avalanche.
Sick to my stomach here,
Dad
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Are you worried you’re the literary asshole? Send your question to the column’s host at AskKristen@lithub.com, or submit it anonymously here.
