RIP: My days of being a good listener (and editor)
OK, is there anybody out there offering up lessons on how to be an asshole? There are so many books out there on good etiquette, but none on how to pay dickheadedness back in kind. And that saddens me.
In the interest of full disclosure: yes, I should go ahead and let you know that I’m already a bitter old crow. But now it’s official, and you can go ahead and cue up Mozart's Requiem for my days of being a good listener. I'm afraid they're pretty much dead and buried. O-V-E-R. Gone. Kaput. In my dotage, I've become more conscious of time wasted with the self-absorbed, the toxic, and just in the past few years - those who can’t wrap up their stories up in three minutes or less. Every good story has a beginning, middle and an end. Getting too mired down in the middle part is the unfortunate tendency of some, but being the other party – stuck there while waiting for someone to get to their point – is even more unfortunate.
It’s depressing. I used to love being everyone’s ear. Being a good listener is an invaluable tool for writers, not only because you're a sponge and can steal at will, but you invariably become a good editor, too. You’re responsible for coming up with ways to better tell your story, and shaping ideas into something your potential audience might give a shit about. And being in the business I’m in, time is of the essence. My colleagues and I are all about economy of words, baby. Just give is the basics: the what, when, where, who and how – and why we should care. And if you can sum it up in five minutes or less, well, what can we say? You’re a golden god.
Now, whenever someone compliments you on something, your usual response is to smile graciously and thank them, right? You’re either the type that gushes effusively back, or you’re the quiet sort who nods your appreciation and then goes off to do your little Snoopy dance somewhere in private. Me, I’ve never been one of those end zone dancer-types, the ones who require constant validation and praise. Not that I’d knock it, but Christ, it’s just so undignified.
A recent example: a writer friend of mine had a piece that aired on a local station. It was one of those classic driveway moments so I stayed in my car and listened, struck as always by their sense of rhythm and heartfelt sentiment. Sure, they tend to get carried away with the flowery language and steamroller-strength clever quips – but that’s just their way, and that’s why we love their pieces.
Later that day, when I called my writer friend from the road to tell them how much I enjoyed this one, they asked me what I got out of it. And I indulged them, as I always do, prepared to spend the next half hour discussing every nuance and beat, as we always do. But no. This time, their response was a terse, “That’s not it. You didn’t get it at all. Go back and re-read it, and we’ll talk about it next week when we go out for a beer.”
Stung at their lack of manners, I wrapped up the conversation quickly, wondering why I'd even bothered. I only got out of it what I got out of it, right? Jeezus. Anyway, I'm sorry to say my writer friend and I haven’t gone out for that beer yet. They just had another piece in the local paper yesterday, too, but I've not read it. My hard-headed ass probably won’t now, either, because I'm a childish ding-a-ling like that. So sue me. Anyway, I might not ‘get it,’ so what's the point.
Maybe I’m a hard-nosed bitch. But unfortunately, this prime example of sniping at the hand that feeds you has spawned a new rule here in my bristly little world. From this moment on, and I don't think it's the PMS speaking - unless you’re in my Sunday writer’s group and we regularly critique each other’s work, or unless you’re actually paying me to be your editor, then don’t ask me to read (or listen to) your fucking piece.
In the interest of full disclosure: yes, I should go ahead and let you know that I’m already a bitter old crow. But now it’s official, and you can go ahead and cue up Mozart's Requiem for my days of being a good listener. I'm afraid they're pretty much dead and buried. O-V-E-R. Gone. Kaput. In my dotage, I've become more conscious of time wasted with the self-absorbed, the toxic, and just in the past few years - those who can’t wrap up their stories up in three minutes or less. Every good story has a beginning, middle and an end. Getting too mired down in the middle part is the unfortunate tendency of some, but being the other party – stuck there while waiting for someone to get to their point – is even more unfortunate.
It’s depressing. I used to love being everyone’s ear. Being a good listener is an invaluable tool for writers, not only because you're a sponge and can steal at will, but you invariably become a good editor, too. You’re responsible for coming up with ways to better tell your story, and shaping ideas into something your potential audience might give a shit about. And being in the business I’m in, time is of the essence. My colleagues and I are all about economy of words, baby. Just give is the basics: the what, when, where, who and how – and why we should care. And if you can sum it up in five minutes or less, well, what can we say? You’re a golden god.
Now, whenever someone compliments you on something, your usual response is to smile graciously and thank them, right? You’re either the type that gushes effusively back, or you’re the quiet sort who nods your appreciation and then goes off to do your little Snoopy dance somewhere in private. Me, I’ve never been one of those end zone dancer-types, the ones who require constant validation and praise. Not that I’d knock it, but Christ, it’s just so undignified.
A recent example: a writer friend of mine had a piece that aired on a local station. It was one of those classic driveway moments so I stayed in my car and listened, struck as always by their sense of rhythm and heartfelt sentiment. Sure, they tend to get carried away with the flowery language and steamroller-strength clever quips – but that’s just their way, and that’s why we love their pieces.
Later that day, when I called my writer friend from the road to tell them how much I enjoyed this one, they asked me what I got out of it. And I indulged them, as I always do, prepared to spend the next half hour discussing every nuance and beat, as we always do. But no. This time, their response was a terse, “That’s not it. You didn’t get it at all. Go back and re-read it, and we’ll talk about it next week when we go out for a beer.”
Stung at their lack of manners, I wrapped up the conversation quickly, wondering why I'd even bothered. I only got out of it what I got out of it, right? Jeezus. Anyway, I'm sorry to say my writer friend and I haven’t gone out for that beer yet. They just had another piece in the local paper yesterday, too, but I've not read it. My hard-headed ass probably won’t now, either, because I'm a childish ding-a-ling like that. So sue me. Anyway, I might not ‘get it,’ so what's the point.
Maybe I’m a hard-nosed bitch. But unfortunately, this prime example of sniping at the hand that feeds you has spawned a new rule here in my bristly little world. From this moment on, and I don't think it's the PMS speaking - unless you’re in my Sunday writer’s group and we regularly critique each other’s work, or unless you’re actually paying me to be your editor, then don’t ask me to read (or listen to) your fucking piece.
Jeezus, is this what fair has come to?
posted by No, You Can't Watch at 2:26 PM
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