Talk like people are listening
Plus my massive failure and one (1) simple exercise I could have been doing to prevent that.
Hey, Weirdlings!
Today’s topic: talk like people are listening, how I fail, and an exercise.
Also, bears! On the side of the road! This relates to today’s topic in no way at all!
Unless we count the fact that bears can also put their feet in their mouths.
Which, let’s be honest, I do constantly. I know this. I’ve got a series of deleted tweets that would make you blush. I’ve got strong opinions and sometimes, it’s hard to stop myself from yelling them from the rooftops. The draft of me that people see is already a little polished, and even so, I’m sure I come off rough.
So I’ve been thinking about this a lot, and talking to others about it: what’s our responsibility each time we open our mouth or limber our fingers?
And I think the clue is in the word itself, in the fact that one of the meanings of ‘responsibility’ is ‘the state of having control over someone’. Now I’m not suggesting that just because you’re a writer, or a graphic artist, or an editor, or a reviewer, or someone with a healthy social media following, or a key member of your local community, that means you have control over people—but maybe I am?
Because control isn’t always something you take. Sometimes, control is given, and gladly. People give it to other people for a billion reasons: they think you know the local restaurants better so they’ll let you pick where to eat. They know you’ve been working in a field for a while so they’ll ask your opinion. They’ll have seen you leave a glowing review of their favourite book so they trust your tastes. Life is a constant series of exhausting micro-decisions and every single one can be so fraught. Giving over control is a way of allowing someone else to drive for a while when you’re tired, of trusting a fellow human in some small way, even if that way is just… allowing them to influence the next book you pick our of your TBR.
And those small ways? They add up. That’s why everyone, no matter what you create or how big your voice is, every one of us is responsible for making good choices whenever someone else gives the steering wheel to us.
Which means we have to assume what we say really matters. All the time. And if that’s true, then I messed up.
How I Screwed The Pooch
Recently I had a nice big rant about how publishing shouldn’t be relying on a majority of non-paying markets in order to survive, and how non-paying projects should be a small chunk of the overall landscape that allows for friendly groups to work together, for beginners to dip their toes, and for charity work to be done. I raved about how it isn’t right that big, respected, much-touted literary venues don’t even make an attempt at paying writers and artists. And, in my annoyed frustration, I added that the writers and artists who endorse these places are helping keep the problem going into the future.
Now I made two mistakes: one is that I didn’t think anyone would care about my opinion anyway. Pro tip: thinking you’re important is vanity, but refusing to accept your responsibility is vanity, too.
And two, I didn’t consider who might be listening and how the context through which they hear my voice changes the meaning.
So let’s use my failure to demonstrate an exercise that we can all practice together in the future: let’s play Least&Most.
Say you’re an editor who is about to run her mouth about how we need more paying markets in literature.
Who is the most knowledgeable person that might potentially be listening to you right now, and how does their perspective color their interpretation?
Well, maybe it’s a fellow editor who’s been working the field for the past thirty years, struggling with how publishing has changed, watching their publisher fail to adapt to new markets, watching their old audience drift away. Maybe they’ve got a scoop on getting a project off the ground, but maybe the only way to do that is for the first few editions of that release to run on volunteer work. Maybe they already feel miserable about this, but it’s the best they can make of a bad situation. Does our hypothetical Mouthrunner sound like a right asshole to them? Yep. And would she have wanted to make them feel worse? Nope.
So that’s a failure right there.
Now, same editor, same situation.
Who is the least knowledgeable person that might potentially be listening to you right now, and how does their perspective color their interpretation?
Maybe it’s a writer who has been working their ass off to get the courage to submit for the very first time. Maybe the only way they could take some of the pressure off was to submit to a non-paying market. Maybe they were feeling really fucking proud. Was I an asshole to this person? Hell yes. And did I want to be? Hell no.
So, that’s a failure, too.
What’s a non-failure outcome in this situation?
Are we supposed to CANCEL ourselves?!? (tone: satire)
No, this definitely isn’t a rant about not speaking your mind. I sure as hell won’t be able to stop mine from running away with me. But there is a non-failure outcome! And it’s the same as it is in most situations where we want to rave against a bad practice in publishing, at work, or in life: to only be an asshole to the people you specifically and precisely intend to be an asshole to.
Because don’t get me wrong here: I intend to be an asshole to several people. Those deleted tweets I mentioned up top? Most of the time, they’re about abuse of power in our field. Publishers who talk like they’re the cock of the walk despite never putting a cent into writer and artist pockets. Editors and curators graciously given status and respect only so they can “acquire” and curate their own shit, knowing full well—full fucking well—that their own shit would never in a billion years make it on a list with the kind of authors they mention unless they put it up there themselves. People who take, who make money, who grab power, and who only give back when the giving makes more for them.
So it’s my job to talk like people are listening, and many of them. Those of you who already know that these things are shady as hell and don’t need my input (but hopefully feel relieved to hear your feelings echoed elsewhere); those who had no idea (but hopefully don’t feel attacked for not knowing); and those who think the above paragraph might be about you.
It is, and I intended to be an asshole to you. <3
The rest of you, stay weird and watch out for bears.
Alex