How to Talk About Your Work by Joy Castro
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Poet Marianne Kunkel interviews writer Nuala Ní Chonchúir for Prairie Schooner[/caption]
Like many writers, I’m shy, and I’m bad at chitchat. While I love long, intense, probing conversations with one or two friends, put me in a cocktail party and I die inside.
While becoming a recluse is always an option, it’s not the best thing for my work, and it’s not the best thing for yours. But how to strike a balance? No one wants to be the writer who blathers on endlessly, unaware of everyone else’s glazed eyes. But neither do we want to be the mousey type who says, when asked about our writing, “Oh, just working on some things,” and then scuttles back to some safe conversational mouse-hole. Learning how to talk about our work comfortably, and for different audiences, can help us immensely.
While publishing has changed, and social media is a godsend for shy writers—who are much happier writing on their blogs, Facebook, and Twitter than talking in public—there are still times when you’ll want to be able to converse about your work with actual live humans in a face-to-face environment. Maybe you go to readings in your town and introduce yourself to other writers. Maybe you talk with other parents during a lull in your kids’ Little League game. Maybe you’re on a break at work, chatting with your colleagues. Maybe you’re at a party.
Every time someone asks what you do, you can practice. In answering the question, start with your writing. (You can always add your day-job later.) With time, this gets easier. When you hear yourself say, again and again, “I write essays,” “I write poetry,” or “I write fiction,” it begins to sound more and more real, more natural, more true. (One tip: I’ve found that people have an easier time phrasing this in verb form than in the trickier noun-form assertion, “I’m a writer.” We tend to get anxious about identity claims—When do I deserve to call myself a writer? etc.—so just stick to the verb. You write. Say so.)
Each time you say it, you’re recommitting yourself to your writing. You’re reinforcing its priority in your life.
If you’re insecure about your work—and who isn’t?—share those fears with your therapist or close friend, because when people ask you about your writing, that’s not the time to confide your self-doubt. It’s the time to share your enthusiasm and love for this wild, beautiful thing we do. Self-effacement is still a focus on the self rather than on the work. Let it go.
For each of my three books, I’ve developed an elevator-spiel—you know, the hook, the thirty-second description that highlights the most interesting or unique thing about the book. And yes, to my chagrin, I did practice saying these spiels out loud at first, so that the words came easily.
I initially cringed from doing this, fearing it would turn me into a car salesman, yelling slogans on TV. But I came to realize that it’s really a matter of politeness, respect, and basic good manners: when asked, you can deliver something brief yet substantive. You provide something interesting, and you respect your questioner’s time.
And now the words do come easily, so if people ask what I’ve written, I can offer something intriguing in a brief little package. If they’re interested in knowing more, they’ll ask. If they’re not, they’ll say, “Huh!” in that pleasant, non-committal way, and the conversation can gracefully move elsewhere. But they’ve heard enough to remember the book, should they later bump into someone who wants to read, say, a memoir by someone who was adopted at birth by a family of Jehovah’s Witnesses and ran away at fourteen. Bam. Thirty seconds.
I’ve also developed different descriptions for different audiences. It helps to use their language, address their concerns, and speak from within their context of knowledge. If I’m reading to an auditorium full of academics and university students, for example, I talk about how my thriller Hell or High Water “mobilizes the rhetorics of two very different genres—noir and chick lit—to address contemporary sociopolitical and environmental issues.” Yep. I use those words. The academics nod. But when I’m at a bookstore, I talk about the excitement of writing crime fiction, and about the crime writers—Dashiell Hammett, Dennis Lehane, Kate Atkinson—who’ve influenced me the most. The voracious readers of mysteries smile. I’m speaking their language.
If I’m talking about my memoir The Truth Book with a women’s book club, we talk about what prompted me to begin writing (the suicide of my father) and how my family reacted when I published it. But if I’m serving as a visiting writer at a college, I talk with the students about how I discovered the book’s structure and controlling metaphor. We focus on craft.
And so on. Thinking in advance about what’s likely to interest your listeners will put you on the same page with them. You’ll be able to connect more readily, and they’ll be engaged.
In less structured situations, like when you’re having a casual conversation with someone who asks the question dreaded by writers everywhere—“Have you written anything I might have heard of?”—that’s not the time to stammer, or flush with the shame of obscurity, or bemoan the state of publishing today. Just say, “Yes, if you like reading such-and-such a genre,” and then talk—briefly!—about how your work fits into that.
In general, always try to let any conversation about your work be a real, human interaction. Listen to what your companion is saying, or think in advance about what your audience is likely to care most about. Then be open. Really listen. Really be there. Let your shyness fall away. Be present. Let go of any reluctance or self-consciousness, because this exchange is not about selling yourself or preening your ego. It’s about connecting to other human beings who’ve given you, temporarily, the great gift of their attention. It’s about honoring their interest and their time.
Poet Marianne Kunkel interviews writer Nuala Ní Chonchúir for Prairie Schooner[/caption]Like many writers, I’m shy, and I’m bad at chitchat. While I love long, intense, probing conversations with one or two friends, put me in a cocktail party and I die inside.
While becoming a recluse is always an option, it’s not the best thing for my work, and it’s not the best thing for yours. But how to strike a balance? No one wants to be the writer who blathers on endlessly, unaware of everyone else’s glazed eyes. But neither do we want to be the mousey type who says, when asked about our writing, “Oh, just working on some things,” and then scuttles back to some safe conversational mouse-hole. Learning how to talk about our work comfortably, and for different audiences, can help us immensely.
While publishing has changed, and social media is a godsend for shy writers—who are much happier writing on their blogs, Facebook, and Twitter than talking in public—there are still times when you’ll want to be able to converse about your work with actual live humans in a face-to-face environment. Maybe you go to readings in your town and introduce yourself to other writers. Maybe you talk with other parents during a lull in your kids’ Little League game. Maybe you’re on a break at work, chatting with your colleagues. Maybe you’re at a party.
Every time someone asks what you do, you can practice. In answering the question, start with your writing. (You can always add your day-job later.) With time, this gets easier. When you hear yourself say, again and again, “I write essays,” “I write poetry,” or “I write fiction,” it begins to sound more and more real, more natural, more true. (One tip: I’ve found that people have an easier time phrasing this in verb form than in the trickier noun-form assertion, “I’m a writer.” We tend to get anxious about identity claims—When do I deserve to call myself a writer? etc.—so just stick to the verb. You write. Say so.)
Each time you say it, you’re recommitting yourself to your writing. You’re reinforcing its priority in your life.
If you’re insecure about your work—and who isn’t?—share those fears with your therapist or close friend, because when people ask you about your writing, that’s not the time to confide your self-doubt. It’s the time to share your enthusiasm and love for this wild, beautiful thing we do. Self-effacement is still a focus on the self rather than on the work. Let it go.
For each of my three books, I’ve developed an elevator-spiel—you know, the hook, the thirty-second description that highlights the most interesting or unique thing about the book. And yes, to my chagrin, I did practice saying these spiels out loud at first, so that the words came easily.
I initially cringed from doing this, fearing it would turn me into a car salesman, yelling slogans on TV. But I came to realize that it’s really a matter of politeness, respect, and basic good manners: when asked, you can deliver something brief yet substantive. You provide something interesting, and you respect your questioner’s time.
And now the words do come easily, so if people ask what I’ve written, I can offer something intriguing in a brief little package. If they’re interested in knowing more, they’ll ask. If they’re not, they’ll say, “Huh!” in that pleasant, non-committal way, and the conversation can gracefully move elsewhere. But they’ve heard enough to remember the book, should they later bump into someone who wants to read, say, a memoir by someone who was adopted at birth by a family of Jehovah’s Witnesses and ran away at fourteen. Bam. Thirty seconds.
I’ve also developed different descriptions for different audiences. It helps to use their language, address their concerns, and speak from within their context of knowledge. If I’m reading to an auditorium full of academics and university students, for example, I talk about how my thriller Hell or High Water “mobilizes the rhetorics of two very different genres—noir and chick lit—to address contemporary sociopolitical and environmental issues.” Yep. I use those words. The academics nod. But when I’m at a bookstore, I talk about the excitement of writing crime fiction, and about the crime writers—Dashiell Hammett, Dennis Lehane, Kate Atkinson—who’ve influenced me the most. The voracious readers of mysteries smile. I’m speaking their language.
If I’m talking about my memoir The Truth Book with a women’s book club, we talk about what prompted me to begin writing (the suicide of my father) and how my family reacted when I published it. But if I’m serving as a visiting writer at a college, I talk with the students about how I discovered the book’s structure and controlling metaphor. We focus on craft.
And so on. Thinking in advance about what’s likely to interest your listeners will put you on the same page with them. You’ll be able to connect more readily, and they’ll be engaged.
In less structured situations, like when you’re having a casual conversation with someone who asks the question dreaded by writers everywhere—“Have you written anything I might have heard of?”—that’s not the time to stammer, or flush with the shame of obscurity, or bemoan the state of publishing today. Just say, “Yes, if you like reading such-and-such a genre,” and then talk—briefly!—about how your work fits into that.
In general, always try to let any conversation about your work be a real, human interaction. Listen to what your companion is saying, or think in advance about what your audience is likely to care most about. Then be open. Really listen. Really be there. Let your shyness fall away. Be present. Let go of any reluctance or self-consciousness, because this exchange is not about selling yourself or preening your ego. It’s about connecting to other human beings who’ve given you, temporarily, the great gift of their attention. It’s about honoring their interest and their time.
