Stand Up Comedy vs. Writing Workshops
Or, I Got Your Instant Feedback Right Here!
A retired detective buddy of mine has, for over a year now, been doing standup comedy. I’m not talking tee-ball open mic nights; these are rigid ten minute sets at legit Manhattan clubs. Cover charge, two drink minimum, professional video—the whole deal. I’ve seen him perform, and had a pretty good time. Some jokes worked, others didn’t. My friend digs that instantaneous response dynamic. Belly laughs or uncomfortable moans? Keep it in. Bone-melting silence? The line goes. It’s simple as that. If you’re a creative, comedy’s feedback dynamic’s a very helpful system. Unlike writing.
Over the last few weeks, I’ve started shopping a literary short—the first non-genre story I’ve ever written. Yesterday, I sent two copies out via postal mail. Yep, there are still journals that accept fiction submissions only if you print yours out, slap a cover letter on it, stuff them in an envelope, and go to your local PO. This is intended, I’m sure, to limit superfluous submissions. The thought being, only a psychopath would subject themselves to an uncertain delivery confirmation and six-months of silence. That psycho, apparently, is me.
I haven’t published a story since last summer (you can find “Club Night” and other hardcore noir in Rock and a Hard Place’s 11th issue, available here). Twelve months is a long time. During that time, I’ve been head-down editing the novel that’s on submission and pounding out the next. I haven’t really shared my work. Writing’s a solitary endeavor, and that solitude can hollow you out. One dedicates months or years to a project, and then has to convince (honest and smart) friends to take hours of their busy lives to read that novel and provide (honest and smart) feedback. And because you know them, and they know you, and presumably like you, or at least tolerate you, they’re probably going to go easy. Even if your work’s a hot trash sandwich. Can’t say the same about New York comedy club audiences.
After incorporating (or ignoring) your friends’ thoughts, you send that novel or short story into the Great Void of Silence-Means-Pass. Increasingly, agents will not reply to projects that don’t interest them, or, more relevantly, that they don’t think they can sell. The non-response, while gutting, is understandable; my agent receives hundreds of queries per week. But more writers and agents are experiencing The Great Void with our novel submissions, too. About half the editors to which my agent subbed my previous project never responded. Those that did offered professional, meaningless feedback usually ending on “we don’t know how to sell this.” Which probably means the editor just didn’t like the book.
But wait, you’re screaming, writers’ workshops exist! Join one and you’ll get weekly feedback! Stop whining, for chrissakes! Well, yes, workshops do exist. I’ve participated in several over the years, some in formal school settings. Know what I’ve learned? Broadly speaking, workshops aren’t helpful. In fact, I think most are likely to have a negative impact on your vision. Again, see Vera Kurian on this. In a class of twenty or so, I’ve found two or three writers might understand what I’m trying to do and possess the insight and honesty to effectively communicate their reactions. Find those writers, the ones who get you. Cherish them. Most importantly, ignore everyone else. That’s easier said than done.
The problem lies in the way our brains work. We tend to remember our losses, our disappointments. Evolution has shaped us to recall where a lion killed a family member or which berries we shouldn’t eat. This is why poker players can detail every bad beat they’ve ever had, but conveniently forget all the times they’ve sucked out against better hands. The same sentiment applies to workshops. And no demographic loves appearing clever more than writers. Loudmouth, overconfident types will prescribe fixes for your story’s perceived problems. What they’re really doing is rewriting your story the way they want it. All you need to know is where the problems are; this section felt slow, that character is flat. Thing is, once their solutions get in your head, they will infect your process. You’d be better off limiting your feedback loop to a very small group of trusted friends. The neo-noir writer William Boyle circulates prepub drafts to his wife and agent—that’s it. Of course, he’s one of crime fiction’s best talents.
The other issue here’s time. Workshops offer readers days to craft witty takes. A comedy club’s reaction is immediate and raw; they laugh or they don’t. They are not walking around for days mumbling, “The jerk store called, they’re running out of you!” Minutes after getting off the stage, my comic friend was on the sidewalk outside the club, making changes to his set. The next week, some bits moved, others were clipped or more deeply explored. Comedy’s a living thing, always changing. I found myself jealous.
The novel I’m writing now’s a departure from previous projects, and I’m nervous. The concept’s gotten mixed responses from my writer buddies, but I’ve loved writing it. My confidence had started to crack when my friend, the incredible novelist Chris Harding Thornton, declared the first 24K words electric. Urged me to keep going. And I am. This won’t get shared with anyone else until it’s done. Months will pass, days and nights spent alone in my office. Me wondering if I’m paddling in the right direction.
I keep thinking, though…I am shooting for a blackly comedic tone this time. Maybe I should set up a few tables in my office, get a liquor license. Charge a $10 cover. Fire lines out as I write them. Gauge the crowd’s responses. A whole new kind of writing workshop. It could work. I did slip the other night, though. My wife read a chapter. She chuckled three times.
THREE TIMES.
This thing’s fucking gold.
"Jerk store." Still kills me.
Nice article!