Being in Austin has put me in a reflective mood. I lived here for eighteen years, longer than I’ve ever lived anywhere, and possibly longer than I ever will again, depending on what the future brings me. Though I did not start selling fiction until after I moved to the Pacific Northwest in 2000, in some very important ways, my career began here. Specifically, in the hands of a particular writer.
I owe this person an immense debt of gratitude. She introduced me to such basics as manuscript formatting, cover letters, critique, and even the very existence of workshops. She mentored me from an unbelievably wet-behind-the-ears newbie, through the convinced-of-my-own-undiscovered-genius phase, through the I-resent-the-conspiracy-against-gifted-newcomers-that-is-publishing phase, and many of the other tiresome but apparently necessary evolutions in the process of my becoming an actual working author.
But a funny thing happened on the way to the bookshelf. When I started showing measurable success, instead of merely expending effort, my mentor found this challenging. When I started appearing in tables of contents, and on bookstore shelves, with a higher profile than she has ever achieved, this writer became one of my most savage critics — not only of my writing, but of my professionalism, my behavior, my blog presence, and even my fashion sense. She eventually drove me off a mailing list and out of a social circle with her profound and unrelenting unpleasantness.
I value friendship very highly, I am almost stupidly loyal, and I can be a slow learner, but in time I learned I had to shut this person out of my life and work. It only took several severe outbursts and a great deal of my own emotional distress to get me there. As a result, someone who’s name should be in the dedications of all my books is instead someone I have not seen or spoken to in years, and probably never will again.
Coming to Austin has somewhat forcibly and sadly reminded me of this 15-year arc of friendship which ended so very badly. And it reminds me that we writers tend to be jealous creatures. Another friend of mine in this business asked me a while back how my friendship with
Yet my first and greatest mentor turned out to be exactly that kind of friend to me. And oddly, my second great mentor, who was very important to me in the years after I moved to Oregon and first began publishing, hasn’t spoken to me since 2005, except once or twice out of social necessity. Which of course, has me wondering if there is some aspect of my behavior which is to account for this.
Now there is the fubar going on in our little well-tempested teapot about when writers are “supposed” to deliver books. I know personally almost everyone who has weighed in, and respect them all. My only comment is that I’m supposed to deliver the book when the contract says to do, and so far I haven’t missed one yet. Not even when I had cancer. There’s one book I will never contract until after it is done, for precisely the kind of creative reasons that
These are big words, I know, and I almost certainly will be called upon to eat them some day, but for now I will say this:
My friends are my friends, and their successes only magnify our friendships.
My books are due when they’re due, and my own personal definition of my professionalism has me turning them in on time.
Maybe some day I’ll learn differently, but I sure hope not.