By J.A.W. McCarthy
Writing is a solitary art.
We’ve all heard it. We’ve all lived it. It’s one of those things that can be true and false at the same time.
When I was eight, I met my best friend. One of the most significant things that bonded us was our shared love of reading and writing. The Scholastic Book Fair was our favorite event. Pizza Hut’s Book It! challenge kept us busy and fed after school. We practiced signing our names like Ramona Quimby (the Q was a little cat!) and shot each other wide-eyed looks while buddy-reading Flowers In the Attic. We worked out problems with our families, the feelings we couldn’t yet articulate, and our hopes for the future in our own nascent writing. I channeled my fears into horror stories. She channeled her dreams into fantasy tales.
At sleepovers, we traded pages (written in longhand!) for each other’s opinions. Huddled next to each other in our sleeping bags, we whispered our intentions for adulthood. Fame and fortune like Stephen King and Anne Rice and Madeleine L’Engle. Our writing would earn us opulent rooms for our books, TV appearances, magazine covers, fans leaving flowers and trinkets of admiration outside our gates. Legacy was already on our lips, even if we didn’t know exactly what that meant.
Even as grade schoolers, we were serious. We were not aspiring writers. We were writers.
How many novels did we each write before we reached our teens? All that time, my best friend and I were each other’s only readers, only critics, only fans. I doubt either of us knew what a critique partner was at that age, but we were each other’s first and most valued set of eyes.
Then my family moved across the country. My friend and I stayed in touch, now mailing each other photocopies of those handwritten pages for suggestions and approval. When email became widely available in our teens, we no longer had to wait by the mailbox anymore, eager and anxious for each other’s thoughts. We kept this up for years, until we didn’t.
As often happens, our lives diverged. We each gave up writing for a while, coming back to it the same way we came back into each other’s orbits. When I tried returning to writing, she was the first person I turned to for advice and community. We talked through our ideas and the process of actually getting our work into the world. She didn’t know any more than I did, but at least we had each other to share the overwhelming tasks of researching how to get published, finding and vetting agents and publishers, and learning how to query. I realized that, though I’d always considered writing a solitary act, I’d never been alone; she’d been my partner in this whether we were next to each other or a thousand miles apart.
Eventually, life got in the way of our dreams again, and my friend gave up writing for a variety of understandable reasons. I found myself alone in front of my computer, the drive to create stronger than ever. Except now I was without a community.
Up until that time, I’d eschewed social media. I bristled at suggestions to join and meet other writers through those platforms; I’d seen enough fights and friendships end due to a comment on someone’s page. I searched for writing groups in my city, but struggled to find any that included horror writers or met at a place and time that was accessible to me. Google wasn’t much help, so I started lurking on various social media apps. There, I saw writers exchanging tips and recommendations. I learned about new-to-me authors in the genre, found the magazines that reflected my taste, and was exposed to a wealth of open calls I wouldn’t have otherwise known existed. I found a thriving community that would eventually welcome me.
This was in 2018, what I would soon learn was a golden age for utilizing social media for book promotion and networking. I joined Instagram then Twitter and quickly found other writers at the start of their careers. We had the same questions, fears, and insecurities. How much money should we expect to be paid for our stories? What should we be wary of in a contract? Were simultaneous submissions okay? The most gratifying part might’ve been seeing more experienced writers jump into these conversations to answer questions, share their experiences, and warn us away from less than favorable deals. When I finally got up the nerve to participate in these conversations, I received kindness and nuanced answers I never would’ve found via Google.
In 2019, I took my first writing class since college. There, I made my first friend in the horror community, who remains a treasured critique partner. She invited me into her writing group, meeting once a month to trade stories and give and receive the much-needed feedback that helped me define my voice and sharpen my skills. From there, I joined a weekly Zoom session open to anyone in the horror community who wanted to sprint, trade work, or just talk about our lives in and out of writing. I learned so much in these sessions, including how to market myself and the value of shouting about what I love. We celebrated our successes and commiserated over our rejections. Even if I did my writing alone, I was now part of a community where we cared about each other and were invested in each other’s success.
Because I sought out community, I’ve received a wealth of essential info, advice, and opportunities I would not have otherwise received. My fellow writers taught me how to spot contract red flags, advised me on the best homes for my stories, introduced me to the whisper networks of predatory publishers and sex pests, and gently pulled me aside to let me know about the people who were pretending to be my friend for their personal gain. They talked me through writer’s block and encouraged me to cross genres. They taught me how to be a better critique partner and a more inclusive reader. Generous, more experienced authors noticed my work and shared their spotlight with me, which got me readers and my first solicitation from a publisher.
I made a lot of mistakes before I started talking to other writers, including allowing an editor to butcher my story because I didn’t know at the time that there were better homes for my work. My community showed me that there was more than those terrible magazines I’d encountered early in my career, the ones full of male voices using gratuitous sexual assault scenes as plot devices (part of the reason I gave up horror writing early on). The women in this community kicked down the door and held it open for writers with voices like mine. They helped me see my worth. Now that I’m in a position to help others, paying it forward is a huge source of joy for me in this community.
Of course, this is my preference and my story of how community has helped me. There are plenty of talented and successful writers out there who do not workshop or utilize critique partners. Not every reader is going to understand and appreciate what you’re doing, and as you hone your voice and style, you’ll learn how to identify your weaknesses and strengths. Do what works for you! But I will argue that you still need a community, especially as a new writer who may not know all the ins of outs of the business. Not every predatory publisher has their name printed in bold on a “Beware!” list. Not every creep gets publicly and repeatedly called out for their harassment and manipulation. There is a wealth of knowledge out there that is not in any one book or magazine article.
No community is perfect; there will always be bad actors who want to steal your money, joy, and dignity. There will be times when your community lets you down. Sometimes you’ll feel like you’ve screamed your throat raw promoting others, but no one is promoting you. Your circle may get a little smaller as you learn whom you can trust with your words and with your vulnerabilities, but once you find your people, you’ll become part of a symbiosis that feeds your soul and creativity. It’s a gift that goes both ways, whether you’re receiving valuable feedback or using your platform to boost an under-appreciated writer.
I don’t know where I’d be if I hadn’t had my friend all those years ago to encourage and challenge me. I probably never would’ve gotten out of my own head without someone holding a knife to my darlings and then asking me to do the same to hers. Without my critique partners and the writing community, I doubt I would’ve grown much in skill and discipline. Sometimes you need someone to push you to push yourself.
In the act of writing, it’s always going to be just you and the page. But in all those blank spaces between the words? And when you’re huddled under a blanket of your own self-doubt after writing “The End”? No one will understand that more than your fellow writers.
