How NOT to lose friends and alienate people (and carry on writing) (Words with Jam, October 2010)
There’s one particular bugbear I’ve got about scribing for a living. And no, it’s not the pain-in-the-butt, why-am-I-doing-this-to-myself shortage of readies. I’m fat anyway so could do with less grub and of the age when too much makeup, however expensive, makes me look like an extra for the latest remake of The Mummy. So, cheaply does it, and does it nicely.
It’s not that I’ve had to sack BUPA, either. We’ll all kick the bucket and, on twenty cancer sticks a day, I accept I might have to ask for help with that sooner rather than later. The NHS will do the job just as well.
I’ve learnt to accept rejection gracefully (well, more or less) and how to brown-nose snooty magazine editors and their even snootier sidekicks (through gritted teeth, mind you). Procrastination doesn’t live here anymore; instead, I get off on unreasonably tight deadlines. Hell, I even love that I can no longer read for pleasure because I’m such a pro now I can’t flip through any old rag of a mag without submerging myself in that holiest of holy activities: THE RESEARCH. One day I might even accept that no, I haven’t got a book in me. So it’s none of these things either.
It’s the sudden popularity I cannot cope with.
With strangers, it usually goes like this: “Wow, a writer, are you? You absolutely MUST write about my aunt Margaret who...” You can imagine the rest. You name it, I’ve heard it: the hip replacement gone wrong, the bladder weakness not even TENA can help with, or the hearing aid interfering with local air traffic controls.
But it’s the family and friends who really do my head in. Take cousin Val, a lovely jubbly hairdresser from Essex, who cornered me at a family do the other day and said “You must interview me, I’ve got all these stories to tell...” I tried to fob her off, gently at first, then less diplomatically but she just wouldn’t bugger off. A few days later I had a text inviting me for a cuppa. And telling me to bring along a professional photographer.
Or my dear friend Mel, money-comes-from-cloud-cuckoo-land wife to her long suffering husband, mother to three pampered Persians. Without a care in the world, Mel spends her days floating from a beauty salon to a boutique and then on to a wine bar, like a little pest of a butterfly that she is. I have a feeling she can’t even read... So, what life’s experiences can she contribute? The ten best ways to fix a broken toenail? The three second attention span of a human gnat?
Then there’s my former boss who fancies himself the subject of “A Day in the Life of an Accountant” for Bean-counter Journal or the like. An accountant... come on!
So, how does one deal with this unexpected surge in popularity? In one of three canny ways, I tell you.
My favourite is to scare them off. I texted cousin Val to say I was commissioned to write about a hairdresser who had cocked up the blue rinse, made an old dear go bold and got sued for at least £20,000, and does she know someone I could interview? Strangely, I haven’t heard back.
Or, you get them to do the legwork. Explain that only out-of-the-ordinary stories sell and ask them to provide the hook. OK, this should be my favourite one considering the potential but it’s not half as much fun as the scare tactics. My ex-boss the accountant very quickly introduced me to his funeral director of a friend and suddenly it’s looking a bit more promising. Not sure I’ll be able to use it for Bean-counter but could always try somewhere else. “Old Accountants Never Die, They Just Lose Their Balance” anyone? I suppose I can always fall back on the scare tactics, if this fails to sell...
Finally, succumb and just write something, anything – on the back of a fag packet, on a piece of loo roll, just write. You don’t have to sell it, they don’t half as much care about seeing their name in print as you do so just write. Mel the butterfly has landed on my blog recently and the friendship’s been saved.
Oh, I nearly forgot to say how to deal with strangers. “Will call ya later” should do it.
A note to the editor: under no circumstances let Val and the ex boss read this. Don’t matter about Mel...
Iwona Tokc-Wilde writes for serious magazines in the UK and the US and tries to be funny at http://thelaughingwife.blogspot.com/
THE END
It’s not that I’ve had to sack BUPA, either. We’ll all kick the bucket and, on twenty cancer sticks a day, I accept I might have to ask for help with that sooner rather than later. The NHS will do the job just as well.
I’ve learnt to accept rejection gracefully (well, more or less) and how to brown-nose snooty magazine editors and their even snootier sidekicks (through gritted teeth, mind you). Procrastination doesn’t live here anymore; instead, I get off on unreasonably tight deadlines. Hell, I even love that I can no longer read for pleasure because I’m such a pro now I can’t flip through any old rag of a mag without submerging myself in that holiest of holy activities: THE RESEARCH. One day I might even accept that no, I haven’t got a book in me. So it’s none of these things either.
It’s the sudden popularity I cannot cope with.
With strangers, it usually goes like this: “Wow, a writer, are you? You absolutely MUST write about my aunt Margaret who...” You can imagine the rest. You name it, I’ve heard it: the hip replacement gone wrong, the bladder weakness not even TENA can help with, or the hearing aid interfering with local air traffic controls.
But it’s the family and friends who really do my head in. Take cousin Val, a lovely jubbly hairdresser from Essex, who cornered me at a family do the other day and said “You must interview me, I’ve got all these stories to tell...” I tried to fob her off, gently at first, then less diplomatically but she just wouldn’t bugger off. A few days later I had a text inviting me for a cuppa. And telling me to bring along a professional photographer.
Or my dear friend Mel, money-comes-from-cloud-cuckoo-land wife to her long suffering husband, mother to three pampered Persians. Without a care in the world, Mel spends her days floating from a beauty salon to a boutique and then on to a wine bar, like a little pest of a butterfly that she is. I have a feeling she can’t even read... So, what life’s experiences can she contribute? The ten best ways to fix a broken toenail? The three second attention span of a human gnat?
Then there’s my former boss who fancies himself the subject of “A Day in the Life of an Accountant” for Bean-counter Journal or the like. An accountant... come on!
So, how does one deal with this unexpected surge in popularity? In one of three canny ways, I tell you.
My favourite is to scare them off. I texted cousin Val to say I was commissioned to write about a hairdresser who had cocked up the blue rinse, made an old dear go bold and got sued for at least £20,000, and does she know someone I could interview? Strangely, I haven’t heard back.
Or, you get them to do the legwork. Explain that only out-of-the-ordinary stories sell and ask them to provide the hook. OK, this should be my favourite one considering the potential but it’s not half as much fun as the scare tactics. My ex-boss the accountant very quickly introduced me to his funeral director of a friend and suddenly it’s looking a bit more promising. Not sure I’ll be able to use it for Bean-counter but could always try somewhere else. “Old Accountants Never Die, They Just Lose Their Balance” anyone? I suppose I can always fall back on the scare tactics, if this fails to sell...
Finally, succumb and just write something, anything – on the back of a fag packet, on a piece of loo roll, just write. You don’t have to sell it, they don’t half as much care about seeing their name in print as you do so just write. Mel the butterfly has landed on my blog recently and the friendship’s been saved.
Oh, I nearly forgot to say how to deal with strangers. “Will call ya later” should do it.
A note to the editor: under no circumstances let Val and the ex boss read this. Don’t matter about Mel...
Iwona Tokc-Wilde writes for serious magazines in the UK and the US and tries to be funny at http://thelaughingwife.blogspot.com/
THE END
© Iwona Tokc-Wilde