Paper Beats Rock? Writers Know Why.

Why does covering a rock with paper defeat it? In the writing world, we call these papers rejection slips. There are two kinds of writers: Those that get discouraged when they get rejection slips and those that don't get discouraged when they get rejection slips. The point being, everyone gets rejected. Think of it like baseball, if you get on base 1/3 of the time you are an excellent player. If you get on base 4 out of ten times, you get in to the Hall of Fame. If you get on base half the time, you must be a robot.

Like most writers, I wish I had a .300 writing average. Worse is when you swing at that ball you shouldn't have. It looks good coming it, you take a swing, but then you look later and wonder what you were thinking. For me, these pieces of writing are usually composed between midnight and 3 am when I should really be in bed. The next morning, scissors (or at least the delete key) usually beats that particular paper.



You've got you piece written. It is solid--one might even say rock-solid to get my metaphor back on track. You push it out to the world, confident that rock beats everything. After all, it crushed those internal scissors of your personal critic. A day, a week, a month, sometimes several months pass. I find that the most discouraging rejection slips come either in the first week--"Was it that obviously bad to everyone else?!"--or after three months--"I thought they were cutting a check this whole time!"

Sometimes, our rocks get covered in so many papers we forget they were ever a rock at all. So what happened? Paper finally beat rock. Freud might look at it this way:

Why we write.

Walk into a crowd, throw a Nerf ball (throwing a rock is likely to get you sued or beaten up), and the chances are you hit a hopeful writer. Some people work for years on one novel and never finish it. Some people push out dozens of rocks only to find them covered in paper. The point is, we all have a story to tell. 

As someone who actually has been published (don't ask me how, I'm still working the details out), there is no greater pleasure than seeing your name in print. Even self-publishing can be satisfying. Every rating on Goodreads gives me a thrill. Well, as long as it is at least three stars; below that just adds paper to the rock. Even family members complimenting a piece is a thrill. The Ego says, "Our plan worked. Someone liked it!" The Superego says, "They have to like it; they are family. The Id replies, "Shut up and let me be happy. Please."

Living below the line of consciousness.

Writers live in the Id: Below the level of consciousness seeking pleasure or pain for their writing. "Why do you like to write?" is one of those questions authors get asked frequently. The answer is often based in the Ego--the plan to bring pleasure--or the Superego--the rulemaker. The fact is, writers usually write because they enjoy it below the level of consciousness or to express pain they may or may not be aware of. 

Many writers will tell you that a character can run away from you. Sometimes, you are writing and that character takes off and does his or her own thing. Those who do not write think that person is insane. We may be insane as writers (we do hope to make money writing after all), but there is a very good, round, Freudian explanation on why characters take off, settings change as we write, and we can surprise ourselves with something we did not know was coming.

Writing often originates in the Id, in the subconscious. We form our characters there from events or facts we are barely aware of at times. These people exist within our subconscious and this is why they can sometimes do their own thing and we have trouble controlling the voices in our head that don't actually exist.

Making the plan.

Writing itself can bring pleasure or pain. Rejection slips might even plunge a writer into a new level of the Thantos--the death instinct--making them sure they will die in oblivion as a writer. The problem is that this is very possible; most of those people you hit with a football will never become the next Stephen King or John Grisham. 

A story lies in our subconscious, and we must get it out. Our Ego takes over and makes a plan to express this story. It plots, it puts characters and places together, and follows some basic rules to get there. The act of writing is for pleasure only, that is why it is the Ego actually doing the writing. No one writes a piece with the intention of making it bad. 

The critics of the two worlds.

Finally, the work is done! Id is happy because you told his story. Ego is happy because you followed his plan to make it happy. Now, here comes Robbie Downer: The Superego. "You have dangling prepositions everywhere," it tells you. (My Superego is pointing out four above plus the fifth one in this sentence.) Your Ego complains, but it goes in and changes: "He sat at the plane window looking out as the plane took off." to "He looked out of the plane through a window as the plane left the ground." Now your Superego complains the sentence is too wordy.

In all, that internal critic is something of a buzzkill. We don't want to listen to him, and many writers make the mistake of leaving the writing with the Ego and Id. They push things out in joy an elation with mistakes the Superego never fixed. We need to listen to that critic or we will meet someone else's critic.

Once we finally finish with the scissors, the rock wins and we throw it out into the world. Then an editor with an overactive Superego wraps it in a paper rejection slip and throws your rock back. In all fairness, editors listen to their Ego as much as writers. Sometimes the piece just doesn't stimulate the pleasure instinct whether it is good or not. 

Words to live by.

So don't get discouraged if paper beats rock after you thought you had crushed the scissors. Take a look at the rock, make sure it is as solid as you thought it was, polish if needed, and throw it out. Eventually, it will crush all Superego, editorial scissors. Papers will stop covering it. Of course then you'll have to deal with critics. A writer's Ego and Id can never find peace.