Letter to My Younger Writer Self

I’m not successful enough to preach to younger writers about what it takes to succeed as an author. I am, however, absurd enough to preach to my younger writer self to help ensure he doesn’t end up just like me. (And if such preaching winds up helping others, too, well that’s just a bonus—provided they don’t become more successful than my younger self does.)

Following is a letter I’ve written to twenty-year-old me. I just hope it reaches him before he gets kicked out of the dorm I’m mailing it to.

Dear 1989 Me,

I hope this letter finds you well. I would have emailed you, but email won’t exist for another four or five years. Consider yourself lucky. 

This is not an easy letter for me to compose. For one, I’ve been drinking. Steadily since about 1997. Secondly, I’ve never been very good at delivering bad news. But here goes … I’m just gonna come right out and say it:

Greg … you’re a writer.  

I know this must come as a bit of a shock to you, especially considering what Professor Merton said about your essay in class the other day. But trust me, you are a writer, and unfortunately there’s nothing you can do about it.

Actually, there is something you can do about it—you can get a lot better at writing. And at being a writer. Don’t worry, I’m here to help. To share the mistakes I’ve made, the lessons I’ve learned and, most importantly, to let you in on how to get approved for more Amazon book categories so you can increase your chances of hitting bestseller lists. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Let’s stick to the basics for now:

Read every day. And not just the books assigned by your professors. Also, nothing with a glossy cover .... or anything written by Cormac McCarthy or Haruki Murakami—their powerful stories and unattainable level of talent will depress the hell out of you and make you think you don’t deserve to write.

Be sure to read the following brilliant (but not so brilliant they’ll destroy you) authors as soon as possible: Franz Kafka, Albert Camus, Clarice Lispector, Henry Miller, Vladimir Nabokov, Kurt Vonnegut, Raymond Chandler, Joan Didion, Elmore Leonard, Donna Tartt, Margaret Atwood, Amy Hempel, Irvine Welsh …  Tell you what, I’ll send you a complete reading list in a subsequent letter. There’s not enough space here and we have to move on.

Write every day. It can be fiction or non-fiction or poetry, but go easy on the poetry. It doesn’t have to be perfect or even good. Yet. And you needn’t hit any lofty daily word-count goals. Just write.

If you ever find yourself without a typewriter or a word processor or a pen or a pencil, use your own blood. And if you can’t find any paper, use your own skin or clothes or those of your roommate. If you’re not sure what to write about, write about the time your future self sent you a letter encouraging you to write in your own blood. Readers love that kind of stuff. At least our kind of readers do.      

Make friends with mean people who know how to write. People like Professor Merton, only with better hygiene and office hours. These folks will tell you straight out when your essay or story or novel sucks, and will provide you with specific reasons why so you can get better.

Now, I’m not saying you need to surround yourself only with talented and brash a-holes, but it’s important to have at least two or three in your life at all times. At the risk of sounding cocky, you can count me as one of those a-holes.

Don’t be cocky. Relax, Junior, I’m not hinting that you’re going to become a world-famous author who can almost get away with being a pompous prick. After all, neither of us are Jonathan Franzen. However, you are going to develop a decent-sized readership—especially if you follow the advice I’ve provided thus far. And if you want to maintain and grow that readership, it’s critical to be kind, generous and humble. I’ve gotten pretty great at it.

The key is to always remember you’re nowhere near as good as Mom thinks we are. You’ll never be Cormac McCarthy or Haruki Murakami. And please don’t be Jonathan Franzen. Just be the following: 1)) thankful you have the freedom and (some) ability to express yourself creatively through the written word; and 2) grateful for every single person who takes time out of their hectic life to read something you’ve written—even more so if they pay to read it and aren’t even related to you.

Make your debut novel your third or fourth. I often tell aspiring writers that debut novels rarely do well and thus it’s better to start off with a later one. They think I’m just being snarky and absurd because, well, they know me, but there is an element of truth in irreverent nonsense.

Point is, when you finish your first novel—and you will— please remember you’re not even close to being done with it. Get it critiqued by some of those mean writer friends I mentioned earlier. Then rewrite the hell out of most of it, and get it critiqued again. Lather, rinse, repeat. Do this until you can no longer stand to even glance at your manuscript. Only then is it probably suitable for the reading public.    

Don’t view authors who write in your genre as “the competition.” As much fun as it is to sit alone in a room for days on end putting imaginary people through living hell while cursing writers who are more successful than you, you shouldn’t. At least not that last part. Writing is not a “you against the world” endeavor. Get out and connect with other authors, particularly authors who write the same kind of stuff you do but better. Why? Because those folks have fans, and those fans are likely to enjoy your writing … assuming you get this letter in time.

Readers aren’t monogamous. They’re not faithful to any one author. They have “a type,” and will give just about any author who fits that type a go. They’re like cheerleaders who sleep with everyone on the team, except they’re more literate and have fewer STDs. So go ahead and join forces with authors in your genre. Network. Collaborate. Ride coattails. Such socializing and schmoozing may seem like a lot of work, young me, but fear not—in less than ten years a thing called the Internet will allow you to become instant best friends with hundreds of writers just like you without having to leave your lonely little room. That’s right, heaven awaits.        

Don’t EVER neglect family or close friends for your writing. I’ve learned this one the hard way so you won’t have to, young me. There will be times when all you can think about is the sentence/paragraph/chapter/tweet you’re working on. And it’s at those times when you’ll need to remember what’s most important. As critical as your writing may seem, nothing trumps your parents or siblings or spouse or friends or therapist or weed dealer—except for when you get a really good idea for a novel during a funeral or family reunion.

I nearly lost a couple of people near and dear to me while writing and editing my last book. I came even closer to losing them again while writing and editing this blog post. But just because I’ve yet to figure out how to balance my writing and personal life doesn’t necessarily mean you’ll have the same struggle. But you almost certainly will. So get help now, then send a letter to future you (me) and tell me everything I need to do. Hurry—I think I heard your future wife packing a suitcase this morning while I was working on what I’m pretty sure is my masterpiece.  

Okay, that's it for now.

Actually, just one more thing: Buy Apple stock ASAP. 

Sincerely,

2018 You

Turns out, postage to the past is extremely expensive. If you’d like to help me cover the cost of getting this letter to younger me, feel free to make a donation via my Amazon page.