Writer's dilemma #3: "The reader"

On the concept of "the reader" and whether it has value

From my hotel room in Amsterdam.

Writing is an inherently solitary exercise. Even now, as I write this, I insist on silence and space, separating myself from distractions so I can capture my thoughts. Conversely, I also seek connection. I build worlds in my mind and desire to fill them with readers; to watch them meet my characters, stand on the margins of scenes, poke around in the rooms I have described. In this way, there is a symbiotic relationship between writers and readers. Anthony Liccione expresses this clearly in stating that “a writer is nothing without a reader; a reader is nothing without a writer. Or, in the words of John Cheever: “I can’t write without a reader. It’s precisely like a kiss—you can’t do it alone.”

“The reader” can be seen as the end of the writing cycle, and at the same time, “the reader” might create something new by imbuing the work with a different meaning. As John Fowles says, “a word ... is never the destination, merely a signpost in its general direction; and whatever ...body that destination finally acquires owes quite as much to “the reader” as to the writer.” I’ve had people read my stories and make linkages I hadn’t even thought about while writing; or see my characters in ways I didn’t intend. And perhaps there’s no misunderstanding or miscommunication here, but a discovery of a different dimension of the story.

“The reader” certainly does important work, and as such, there is an obsession amongst writers about who their “reader” is. But the question is, does it matter? And should this consideration affect the writer’s choices?

Some level of awareness of “the reader” is good, because it can stop writers from being too self-indulgent. For example, when I write reams of introspection by a character unbroken by anything else, or I write a beautiful scene where nothing actually happens, I ask myself if it moves the story forward, which in most cases, is another way of asking if I would lose “the reader”. As Elmore Leonard says, “I try to leave out the parts that people skip.” Additionally, for writers who write within specific genres, an awareness of “the reader”, who in that case, is a fan of the genre, would allow them to respect the rules of that genre. For example, romance novels or thrillers may have certain conventions; and children’s fiction must be appropriate for the audience. It’s also an important question in non-fiction, for the writers to consider what their audience would already know.

However, I would argue that this general awareness of “the reader” is as far as it should go. Anything more than this would, in my opinion, compromise the integrity of the work. I do not think it is necessary or helpful to have a specific sense of who reads or would read your work, and what they want or would want to happen in the story. I went to a literary festival in Paris and was talking to a writer who was telling me about “the market” and how he infuses aspects in his writing specifically because he thinks it would sell better, or make an exciting film adaptation. And this made me sad. I wondered if he had lost his identity or voice as a writer. I wondered if he was able to write stories that could outlive a certain trend. I wondered if he recognised himself in the work he makes. This might be naïve, but I feel that writing should mean more than that. It can feel spiritual— the way a story may come, sometimes fully formed, sometimes waiting to be unearthed, and writing it feels like the process of discovering an old truth. Even as my work may go through edits by trusted “readers”, keeping hold of my truth as a writer helps to ensure that I only accept what feels right to me and my story. In the words of Wally Lamb, “If the book is true, it will find an audience that is meant to read it."

Holding on to your truth as a writer would also help to ignore and move past reviews, both good and bad, as they can both be dangerous — good reviews can make you attempt to recreate whatever you think was successful in the work; or can lead to you resting on your laurels. Bad reviews can paralyse you. This was Mozart’s approach: “I pay no attention whatever to anybody's praise or blame. I simply follow my own feelings.” And, according to William Meikle, “reviews are for readers, not writers. If I get a bad one, I shrug it off. If I get a good one, I don't believe it”. I have not succeeded yet, but I would love to get to that point where I don’t wonder what people think about something I have written; where I’m not anxious about the work’s end point. It’s also difficult nowadays, in the world of statistics and algorithms, to fight the urge to assess your work in this way.

Even as I write these pieces on substack, I try very hard not to focus on my audience size or engagement. At the end of the day, connecting with “the reader” can mean connecting with even one person who reads your words and understands them. It also means connecting with yourself. In my case, I read each post I write many times, even after they have gone up, and I notice how I may have been able to bring a piece to life or find the words for a portion I struggled with. I read all my pieces with criticism, with pride, with a recognition of my own growth. Ultimately, I am “the reader”.

As Toni Morrison said, “If there's a book that you want to read, but it hasn't been written yet, then you must write it.” Writing then becomes an exercise in honouring yourself as a reader, which in most cases, is the identity that came first. As Barbara Kingsolver says, “don’t try to figure out what other people want to hear from you; figure out what you have to say. It’s the one and only thing you have to offer.” At the end of the day, it’s all about your truth. Elizabeth Gilbert puts it beautifully when she says, “do whatever brings you to life, then. Follow your own fascinations, obsessions, and compulsions. Trust them. Create whatever causes a revolution in your heart.” Because, if it doesn’t move you, doesn’t ring true, doesn’t make you proud as a writer and as your first reader, then there is no point. When I write something, I put it down, take a step back, come back to it after some time has passed, and I am able to become “the reader”. At this point, I can look at my work more objectively, think about what needs to be improved, and place myself in the margins of the story.  

Yes, there is always a cycle to be completed— from the writing of the words to their reading. And I’m grateful to do both.

I explored this theme of what I offer myself as a writer, in my essay published in Márọkọ́ here. I also explored the idea of sharing your work as a writer in a substack piece linked here.

P.S: It was my birthday a couple of days ago, and I started this substack three days shy of my birthday last year. What a journey it has been. If you’ve enjoyed being here, please share this page with someone you know.

Prompt:

Who do you write for? Write about it and share it with me (by sending it on instagram, or replying by email if you’re a subscriber) in the next week, and it will go up on the Instagram page.