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    Boxing the Octopus: The Worst Way to Become an Almost Famous Author & the Best Advice I Got while Doing It
    Boxing the Octopus: The Worst Way to Become an Almost Famous Author & the Best Advice I Got while Doing It
    Boxing the Octopus: The Worst Way to Become an Almost Famous Author & the Best Advice I Got while Doing It
    Ebook147 pages1 hour

    Boxing the Octopus: The Worst Way to Become an Almost Famous Author & the Best Advice I Got while Doing It

    By Joni Rodgers

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    About this ebook

    "Joni Rodgers lives, loves, and writes without a safety net."—Entertainment Weekly

    A voracious reader from age three, Joni Rodgers wrote her first two novels as a young mom in the crucible of chemotherapy. She went on to become a bestselling author, book club darling, and sought-after ghostwriter. Now, thirty-three books into a stellar career, she collaborates on celebrity book projects via Zoom while celebrating life as a WIP at her home on a remote peninsula in Washington State.

    Boxing the Octopus chronicles Joni’s unorthodox journey through the Badlands of the publishing industry and engages aspiring writers with quizzes, worksheets, and thought-provoking activities. A bracing mix of memoir and meditation, it’s peppered with laughter and delivers a swift kick in the creative pants.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherJoni Rodgers
    Release dateMar 31, 2022
    ISBN9798985549508
    Boxing the Octopus: The Worst Way to Become an Almost Famous Author & the Best Advice I Got while Doing It
    Author

    Joni Rodgers

    Joni Rodgers is the author of several books including Bald in the Land of Big Hair, a memoir of her own unlikely journey from cancer patient to celebrity memoir guru.

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      Book preview

      Boxing the Octopus - Joni Rodgers

      It’s a great life, if you don’t weaken.

      SIR JOHN BUCHAN AUTHOR OF THE THIRTY-NINE STEPS

      Thirteen Months Later . . .

      INTRODUCTION

      We are living in the most thrilling publishing era since Gutenberg.

      In February 2012, I wrote a condensed prototype of this book on my MacBook Air during a flight from Houston to Brussels. While I visited the Magritte museum, ate strange cheeses, and slept for a few hours in Belgium, two members of the Midwives, my critique group, read the draft and made notes. The next day, I input their edits while I rode the bullet train from Brussels to St. Pancras Station in London. Drinking coffee in the kitchen of Irish author Orna Ross—whom I’d seen many times on Facebook and Skype but met for the first time that morning at the Willesden Green tube station—I used Scrivener to convert the manuscript to ebook format and assigned it an ISBN from the spares I keep on hand. That evening, sitting in the Espresso Corner at Earls Court with the London Book Fair in full swing all around me, I uploaded the file with a cover I designed myself, because the one I paid to have designed a few weeks earlier didn’t float my boat. The following morning, while I participated in a panel on established authors going indie, the book titled First You Write went live on Amazon, and audience members were able to scan a QR code from my business card to download it for free. While I waited in line for a glass of wine that afternoon, two people popped over to tell me they’d already read it.

      It was a quick read—and still is. I promise. The point of this exercise was to illustrate how mind-blowingly fast things were moving in the industry at the time. The point of telling you about it now is to illustrate how mind-blowingly fast the industry continues to evolve. Ten seconds after I pulled the trigger on that ebook, the fresh technology was old hat. Conversations about publishing tech need to take place in real time. We’re talking about writing here. The art and act of transmuting thought and emotion to language transcends technology. It is what it is on stone, papyri, Moleskine notebook, dot matrix, digital, and whatever comes next. Trying to make heads or tails of the publishing industry will suck your head inside out and, if you have any sense of justice, break your heart. If you’re going to be pragmatic about it, when you feel the urge to put your words out into the world, you should run—run—the other way.

      Kristin Chenoweth tells her Broadway Boot Camp students: If there’s anything else you can do for a living and still be happy, do it. I urge the same caution on aspiring writers. It’s hard work, if you’re doing it right, and the joy of doing that work is sometimes difficult to hold onto, because it’s done mostly in solitude, without reward.

      If you’re trying to learn how to be a writer, there’s limited net gain in studying some other writer’s Lord of the Rings journey in minute detail—the angst of the draft, the vagaries of critical butt-fluffers—because the environment is constantly changing and every writer’s journey is unique. There’s no step-by-step IKEA construction manual to follow, because art should be undisciplined. Craft is where discipline comes in.

      In the art of writing, there are no rules, only reasons.

      Let’s not even pretend this little book is about to teach you what to write or how to publish or anything else you don’t already know. No one can tell you how to intuit your art, practice your craft, or run your business. I can only tell you what’s worked (or not) for me and perhaps offer a few general pirate rules, which are more like guidelines, as Johnny Depp reminds us in Pirates of the Caribbean. Prefacing with a big fat FWIW, I’ll offer a few encouraging suggestions that might point you in a direction you haven’t thought of or clarify a direction you have thought of. Perhaps it’s a direction you’ve always yearned toward from the corner of your eye while the world, your loved ones, and other satanic forces united to convince you that your notion of being a writer was adorable but insane. I can tell you: I’ve been there. I can’t tell you it will get easier.

      This is the not necessarily chronological, occasionally metaphorical, but pretty much exactly true story of how I made it onto the New York Times bestseller list. And it’s the story of why that didn’t matter as much as I thought it would. I’m throwing in tidbits of wisdom I started collecting in a little desk caddy before I actually had a desk to put it on. I’ve also asked several of my writer friends, including the Midwives and other colleagues, to contribute 100ish words of advice on craft and writing life.

      That’s essentially my education as a writer: reading, seeking, asking questions, and recognizing that I still have a lot to learn. Any pearls of wisdom here were given to me as gifts; I’ve figured out very little on my own. My education as an editor comes from decades of being stringently, mercilessly edited by some of the best in the biz.

      The only way to grow as a writer is to write.

      So there’s room in these pages for you to add your own words. I’ll challenge you to get past the decision fatigue of everyday existence and prompt some self-querying, but as I see it, all white space is fair game as we put up our dukes and take on this many-tentacled beast that is the writing life.

      Let me live, love, and say it well in good sentences.

      SYLVIA PLATH AUTHOR OF THE BELL JAR

      ONE

      GO FORTH

      Anyone attempting to make a living and a life in the arts must reinvent their own wheel. One stellar example of that early in my career was the late, great Rue McClanahan. While I was working with Rue, ghostwriting her memoir and subsequently adapting it for a one-woman show, we had many long conversations about what it means to be an artist.

      Most people remember Rue as Blanche Devereaux on The Golden Girls, but that role was a small part of her long, impressive acting career, and acting was only one facet of her life as an artist. Rue took ballet from early childhood and studied at Jacob’s Pillow as a teen. She was a drama major at the University of Tulsa and studied acting with Uta Hagen at the Berghof Studio in New York, where she learned about a level of specificity and intention that can and must apply to good writing:

      You must learn to communicate volumes with an eyelash.

      She wanted to be taken seriously as an actress but knew her greatest gift was that she was funny as hell—on stage, on camera, and in real life. At the time Rue’s memoir was published, there was a Golden Girls rerun playing somewhere in the world every hour of every day. She embraced Blanche, but it’s not how she wanted to be remembered. She wanted her book to be funny—that was a given—but Rue also wanted to say something meaningful about life and art. She hoped her son, a jazz guitarist, would read this book and understand a few things about his own life as an artist.

      Rue’s early hardscrabble gigs included everything from singing waitress to angsty film noir. One night in the early 1950s, she bent to light a gas stove and was blown back against a wall, horribly burned. Two days later, in searing pain, thick body makeup covering her peeling skin, she shot a semi-nude love scene for Walk the Angry Beach (later released as Hollywood After Dark.) She agonized over long periods away from her son, lived out of suitcases and closets, sacrificed anything and everything she had to, not to be rich or famous, but to practice her craft.

      Rue’s joy, generosity, and capacity for love were childlike and unstoppable. She painted and did wildly colorful ink graphics that cluttered the walls of her eclectic Manhattan apartment. She designed and constructed her own costumes early on and didn’t hesitate to offer input when she later had the luxury of designers crafting clothes for her.

      She also wrote. And wrote. And wrote.

      She’d dabbled with short stories since she was young and in the 1970s collaborated with a friend on an off-off-Broadway musical called Oedipus Schmedipus, As Long as You Love Your Mother. When I was brought in by Random House to help Rue with her memoir, she handed me a walloping 800 or so pages of material she’d already produced under the title My First Five Husbands. Our main challenge: Rue never met a billboard, song lyric, stray dog, walnut shell, math problem, taxi driver, or English muffin that didn’t have some hilariously epic story attached to it. Everything fascinated her. She read books about philosophy and physics—yes, Blanche fans, physics!—and history.

      Structurally, the thing was an incomprehensible M. C. Escher staircase to oblivion, but the writing itself was very good. Rue was extremely smart and incredibly funny. I waded through the whole hilariously brilliant quagmire, making copious notes and plotting a possible course for the manuscript that would skim a lot of foam from the prose but still keep Rue’s adventures and distinctive voice intact. Then I returned to New York, and after dinner and a walk up the street for cigarettes, we sat out on her patio with the behemoth manuscript and a bottle of red wine between us.

      You don’t need a ghostwriter, I told her. "You need a book

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