This is for fanfic writers who want to go pro. If you have no interest in writing, feel free to skip this article; if you write but have no interest in becoming a published author, ditto. For the rest of you, I should add the additional warning that what I say here is relevant only to fanfic writers who are ready to go pro. Not sure if you're ready? Here's a quick checklist:
I don't meet all of these qualifications, I should note. Or at least, I didn't when I first decided to apply to the Viable Paradise Writers' Workshop. I met most of them, but the one about fame and riches still lurked in the back of my mind despite my efforts to be realistic. And I wasn't entirely sure that I was ready, on the lovely Sunday afternoon that I arrived on the beautiful island of Martha's Vineyard, a couple of weeks ago. By the end of the week, however, I knew everything I needed to know about becoming a pro writer... whether I wanted to know it or not. But let's back up a bit.
I've been writing since I was a kid. My first novels were crap---fun crap, but crap nevertheless. When I hit college and got my first computer, the crap churned out faster, but it was still crap. In grad school I hit a period of (original material) writers' block that lasted about five years. During that time, to keep myself sane and to prove I could still write, I wrote fanfic (somewhat shameful plug: Mirai's World, my wp). Most of that was crap, too, but over time it got better. Eventually the writers' block broke with a vengeance and I cranked out a new novel which, to my complete shock, wasn't crap.
So about this time, I started thinking maybe I was ready to go pro. I did my research, learned the rules of the game, and tried sending my novel out to publishers and agents. After a slew of rejections---some of them friendly and personal, but still rejections---I began to rethink my strategy. Maybe I was ready, but just hadn't yet sussed out the trick of letting others know that I was ready. Marketing, in other words. In today's publishing environment, it's no longer enough to just be good; you have to be good, connected, and well-packaged. (The possibility that I might not yet be good enough occurred to me as well, though I struggled not to let that particular thought take root; confidence in one's own ability is important, too.) Taken altogether, my problems all seemed to have one solution: it was time for a workshop.
Writing workshops have been around in various forms for years. I won't bore you with the complete history of the phenomenon, but as far as speculative fiction is concerned, just remember this: in the beginning, Damon Knight created Clarion. Clarion was, and remains, a six-week behemoth of a workshop which has gained a reputation for cranking out a number of the field's biggest names. It also has a reputation for being the literary equivalent of boot camp, able to destroy fledgling writers in a single bound, if they can't take the pressure. While on a certain level that sort of thing appealed to me---just let them try to break me! grunt grunt grunt---on a more honest level I felt it wasn't what I needed. Clarion's open only to short story writers, for one thing, and I'm a novelist. It's also intended to help you crank out a large number of well-written stories in a very short time. I can write under pressure at home; I didn't want to spend thousands of dollars and all my vacation time for the next two years getting it from a bunch of strangers.
That's when I heard about Viable Paradise. VP is a little bit of Clarion, and a little bit of something completely different. Though it shares some of the same instructors and alumni as Clarion, it's only one week long instead of six. More importantly, it's focused on the end of the writing process, rather than the beginning; how to write for publication, rather than just how to write. Sounded right up my alley.
Like most writing workshops, VP was by invitation only. The application process required a cover letter and a writing sample of up to 10,000 words. So I wrote up the first few chapters of a new novel, sent it off, and waited. In July, I got the news; I had been accepted. After coughing up a hefty sum for tuition and another for housing, hopping on the VP mailing list to find a roommate and a carpool, and arguing with my boss for a week off, I was off.
Let me digress for just a moment to confess that one of the reasons I picked VP was its location. It's local for me, but more importantly it was on the island of Martha's Vineyard, which I'd heard about but never had a chance to visit. I have since fallen in love with this island. The workshop takes place during the off-season, but before the ickiest of New England weather begins. This meant few tourists, clear days, and sparkling empty beaches. Definitely a paradise, in my book.
Back to the workshop. When I arrived with my carpool-mates, I was met at the ferry station by one of the VP staff, who drove us to the Island Inn. There I checked into my room---a two-bedroom apartment bigger than the one I actually live in, with a balcony view of the beach and a fully-utensiled kitchen. This last feature would prove to be the most important over the coming week, because the workshop was expensive and my roommate and I saved money by cooking our own meals. I met my roommate---a Clarion graduate---and got settled in. We proceeded to "the cottage" for our first official get-together, where the VP staff fed us and we got our nametags and intimidating-looking packets full of our fellow VPers' manuscripts, etc. We met the instructors, an equally intimidating bunch of published writers and publishing professionals. We got our very intimidating schedules for the week---lectures, one-on-ones with the instructors, etc.
At about this point, you can imagine I was feeling pretty intimidated, so I joined in when the gang proceeded to a meeting room for a bit of icebreaking. We introduced ourselves, and I was surprised to find that my fellow students' experience ran the gamut from published professionals---one of whom may end up on the ballot for a Nebula award this year---to fellow fanfic writers, one of whom hailed from the slash end of the spectrum. Then we played games called "Mafia" and "Thing"---which I can't describe to you easily, but which went a long way toward helping me feel much less intimidated. Plus they gave us lots of insider joke fodder for the rest of the week.
The next morning, things started promptly at 9. After another introductory session, we jumped right into the deep end with one of the infamous group critiques, or "group gropes." A group grope is when a bunch of your fellow writers sit you down in a chair, surround you, and tell you what they liked and didn't like about your manuscript. Mostly what they didn't like. They don't focus on the dislikes because they want to destroy your ego and send you home crying---although that can occasionally result---but because the purpose of a workshop is to help you improve, and no one improves by being told how great they are. Even the best writers can be better, after all.
I wasn't on the hot seat that first day; my group grope wasn't until later that week. I participated in several others' gropes before I had my own moment of truth, and I think this was a good thing. I had three days to brace myself for it, for one thing. For another, seeing others get groped helped me get a more realistic assessment of my fellow workshoppers' abilities, critiquing styles, and the mistakes that were common to all writers. In fact, as I was to discover over the course of the week, group gropes are probably the most useful element of any writers' workshop for exactly this reason. I've since begun to realize that this is why I improved during the years I was writing nothing but fanfiction. Although the feedback I received on my own work was sketchy at best, I was also reading fanfiction during those years---and critiquing it, and reviewing it (see the Fanfic Spotlight here in Aesthe's Fanfic section). By reading fanfics with a critical eye, I got to see how other writers dealt successfully with the knottiest problems of exposition and characterization. I learned how to write sentences that wouldn't trigger allergic reactions in my audience. In effect, reading fanfic critically was like an extended writing workshop.
But I digress. Aside from the group gropes, we also had scheduled one-on-one sessions with the instructors---or some of them. My own scheduled one-on-ones were with two of the published authors. I was looking forward to them; Actual Writers were going to give me their opinions on my stuff. However, I'd also hoped for the chance to have a session with one of the publishers in charge of the workshop. All of the students were encouraged to try and set up additional one-on-ones with any of the instructors. This whole process proved to be both a test of my own fortitude and a measure of the politics at work within the group.
Politics, you ask? But of course! If there's one major difference between aspiring pro writers and fanfic writers, it's politics. There's no pressure on fanfic writers, and little competition other than the friendly kind; in the fan-realm, the more writers, the merrier. Not so in the wannabe-pro world, where any writer who has an idea similar to yours is a thief, either of your opportunity or of your idea outright. Every writer who succeeds reduces your chance of success by a fraction, because the industry can only support so many good writers at a time. Nobody said anything about it---not publicly, anyhow---but it was plain as day. We were all sizing each other up. Probing for weaknesses. Building alliances, and developing enemies. I'm told that at six-week workshops, one of the middle weeks becomes storm week---the time when all of the simmering resentments explode, and the proverbial shit hits the proverbial fan. I've seen the phenomenon occur in other situations, and studied it in my Group Dynamics classes in grad school. This was textbook group cohesion theory: early stages of self and intra-group assessment, middle stages of factionalization and interpersonal revelation, late stages of group identity formation and bonding/strengthening. VP wasn't long enough for the cycle to play out in full, but the beginning stages were well under way by the end of the first day.
I won't go into the details of the politics at VP, in part because I don't like to spread dirt and in part because the dirt would be meaningless to anyone who wasn't there. I will say that those extra one-on-ones---or any opportunities for personal attention from the instructors---became the gold of the workshop. The instructors had the gold, we wanted it, and acquiring it took a peculiar balance between ruthlessness and humility. And luck. Some of the students found that they were unable to get one-on-ones with the instructors they wanted even after multiple requests, while others were invited unasked. Some felt ripped apart after meetings with the instructors, while others felt coddled. Some blundered into one-on-ones by chance, while others had clearly planned their strategies long before the workshop. One of the best one-on-ones I had was a completely impromptu afternoon session with one of the published writers, triggered by me sitting on our shared balcony and playing Civilization on my laptop. One of the most uncomfortable interactions I witnessed occurred when one of the students pushed a finished novel---not a workshop submission---on one of the instructors, and the instructor clearly didn't want to take it. (I can mention this incident because I saw it happen several times, with several different writers. It never went well. Note to any who are thinking about coming to this workshop: it's not a pitch session. Try the Pike's Peak Writer's Conference, if that's what you want.
Lest I leave you all thinking that VP stands for Viper Pit, however, I should clarify. These politics were an undercurrent, not a dominant element of the workshop. It was possible to ignore them altogether and still have a great time---which, for the most part, I did. There was plenty of other stuff to occupy my attention. Like the Collegia at the end of every day---hour-long sessions in which anybody could talk about anything. Bullshit sessions, in essence. In one of these I learned that maybe I've been worrying too much about whether to include sex in my novels; sex sells, after all. In another, I learned that one of the agents to whom I'd once submitted (and by whom I'd once been rejected) had a reputation in the industry for being a socially inept jerk. I didn't feel quite so bad about being rejected, after that.
There were also long stretches of idle time, which were excellent for either socializing with my fellow writers/instructors, or going off alone. Despite my natural tendency toward introversion, I joined in several of the impromptu social events that developed at these times. About fifteen of us bum-rushed the local "cajun" (insofar as anything in Massachusetts qualifies as cajun) restaurant one night, where we made a disgracefully loud and drunken showing of ourselves. That was lots of fun. On another afternoon, we wandered en masse about the quaint little tourist trap of Oak Bluffs, where we had ice cream from former President Clinton's favorite shop, Mad Martha's. Then we sat around discussing story ideas while watching Canada geese strut about the town green. Even more fun.
By far the most useful of these incidences, however, was the private time. Most of us had large blocks of time left open in our schedules, and I think there's a very good reason for this. In my own case, I had one afternoon free, so I rented a bicycle from one of the island shops, and biked along what seemed to be an oversized sandbar for a couple of miles. On a whim, I stopped in a nice-looking spot and set up camp, having brought my laptop and borrowed a blanket from the inn. I tried to write, but discovered that bright sunlight and an active-matrix display monitor don't mix well, so instead I just sat there and gazed out at the ocean. I didn't stay long---only an hour or so---but that time served as an opportunity to process all that I'd learned. A kind of meditation. As I listened to the ocean and contemplated the seashells, I became aware of a peculiar sensation of imminence within myself. I'd been at VP for three days at that point, and already something within me was changing... growing... to accommodate a new sense of readiness. I'd felt ready before VP, but this time the feeling was grounded in a realistic, tested-and-true sense of my own ability and worth. I suppose you could call it a spiritual awakening---or perhaps a rebirth. Somewhere along the way, between the fun crap of my childhood and the it-doesn't-suck products of my adulthood, I'd begun to lose my joy in writing. I'd focused too much on the logistics and the mechanics and lost sight of the art itself; I no longer wrote crap but it wasn't fun anymore, either.
That afternoon on the beach gave me back my sense of purpose and fun. The workshop up to that point had sown the seeds of this transcendent moment---sown them roughly, but watered them well---and the workshop after that day would reaffirm it for me. I am meant to be a writer. I might never be a popular writer; I might never be able to live off my income as a writer; I might eventually suffer the dire fate of mid-list writers and others whose careers flame out early (see Melisa Michaels' account of this on the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers' Association website)... but I will write. And one day, I will publish. It's only a matter of time.
(I want to stress that not everyone in the workshop experienced a moment like this. Some people left VP feeling disillusioned; I know at least one writer was feeling pretty angry by the end of everything. I've heard that you get out of any workshop what you put into it. I don't know if that's true or not; I'm just telling you what I happened to get out of it. Your mileage, if you should ever attend in the future, may vary.)
After that, everything was downhill. Sorta. I had my group grope, and got completely contradictory advice. I had a one-on-one with one of the authors, who picked apart my worldbuilding with a surgeon's exactitude; once I recovered from my wounds, I was delighted to realize that I now understood where the gaping holes in my plot were, and how to fix them. I managed to work up the courage to request a one-on-one with one of the publishers, and after a number of harrowing reschedulings, lucked up and got a two-on-one with both of them instead. We had a lecture about the state of the writing industry and learned that it's much harder to get published these days than it was fifty years ago... but the industry is more welcoming to unique ideas than it used to be. At the end of it all, I was left feeling bruised but better. Hopeful.
Some positives I haven't mentioned yet: Stargazing, and glimpsing the Milky Way for the first time in years without light pollution in the way. Bioluminescent jellyfish. Not turning on the TV for a whole week, and not missing it at all. Walking in the dark without fear. Maids who do your dishes. Waking up with the dawn, raring to go. "Wow, there's a lot more black people on this island than I expected!" Stupid seagull tricks. Some negatives: Demonic mosquitoes. Resort-town prices. Cajun in New England, isn't.
So: was a writing workshop right for me? Hell, yes. There were times at the beginning when I wondered whether I should just pack it up and go home, but by the end I knew I was a stronger writer, both psychologically and talent-wise. I made some excellent contacts, and may even be able to bypass the slushpile when I finally get my latest novel finished. And I made good friends. Several of us who were from the Boston area are now forming a writing group; we'll meet periodically to critique one another's stuff and do conferences together. I've got an open invitation to the Montreal Jazz Festival next year, and to a haunted hayride out on Cape Cod this year. I'm also planning to return to Martha's Vineyard again at some point---perhaps frequently. If one visit could recharge me like this, repeat visits should keep me going for quite a while.
Is a writing workshop right for you? Only you can answer that question. If you've made it this far into my article, then you're probably interested, so I'd suggest you follow up with other articles on the subject (such as this one by VP instructor Jim Kelly), and talk to some people who've been through them. Then make sure you're picking a workshop that's right for you, because not all workshops are the same. Here's a list of available workshops to get you started.
As for me, I'm going to stop writing this article now and get back to my own stuff. I wrote a short story the day after VP, and have churned out two chapters of my novel in the weeks since. I've also jotted down ideas for three other novels, which I'll get to one day. In the meantime, I'll once again chant the official Viable Paradise oath, duly administered to and accepted by all graduates:
I will write, every day.
I will finish what I write.
I will revise what I finish.
I will send out what I revised
(to paying markets only).
I will continue to send it out
Until Hell won't have it.
And I will tell everyone
That Viable Paradise is a really neat workshop.