Ever meet somebody who asks you for advice and the advice you really want to give this person is "Go soak your head , bozo"?
Please let me explain. When people ask for advice, I try to be as generous and honest as I can be, in part because people have offered thoughtful, important, occasionally even life-changing counsel when I needed it.
When I was afraid to go away to college, my father told me to give it a try because I could always take the next bus home; when I needed help leaving a disastrous relationship, a friend reminded me that while you can't undo what you've done, you can always stop what you're doing; when I needed help getting over my pathological fear of flying, a colleague suggested I call her therapist as soon as possible--and wrote out the number. All of these were excellent, and fairly simple, suggestions. Folks offered their opinions and I listened; I then decided they held wisdom and so acted accordingly.
I was not, you'll notice, asking for them to do anything on my behalf except advise me. This is what the phrase "asking for advice" implies.
If a student I've known for a couple of years wonders aloud about whether working on a fishing boat out of Cape Cod might be better than resuming her usual desk-job for the summer, I'll answer her in a both mature and maternal ("Ahoy, mateys!"). If a young man wonders whether he should go straight to graduate school even though he has been in an educational setting since age five and is starting to feel burnt out, I will respond in the most sensitive and encouraging way possible ("Ahoy, mateys! How about working on a boat for a year and giving yourself some time to breathe?"). I respect these young people enough to know that they will not go off and join the Merchant Marines because I consider the seaside is a nice environment.
I offer advice, not instruction, when it comes to matters outside the classroom.
For example, when my students come in and ask whether I think they should apply for the study abroad program, I can announce wholeheartedly that yes, this will the best decision they can make in their undergraduate career--as far as I am concerned. I can then offer to write them a letter of support if I know their work is good, know their character is stable, and if they wish me to do so.
This is all dandy.
Dandy, too, is when a reader, a friend, or somebody at the check-out line of the supermarket, wonders what advice I can offer about writing. I pass along what I was taught fifteen years ago, information both basic and useful: read everything you can by writers who write the sorts of material you are writing.
Even if it is a lousy sentence, it is good advice.
True, it might unnerve you to learn that others are claiming the same territory you thought you alone were staking out, but you still need to know if this is the case. By reading widely and constantly, you'll learn where your work fits in as well as learning how many different versions of the same story exist. This last piece of knowledge is both daunting and reassuring: if you have a strong voice, you can sharpen it by striking it against the hard edge of other work.
What is NOT dandy is when a young man introduces himself to me with the edict that I will need to help him get his work published. Especially when his attitude is the following: "You've figured out the TRICK to getting published. If you give me the secret access code, then I can get published, too."
I rattled off my usual spiel about learning what is out there. He countered that there was no reason to read other writers; they would dilute his authentic talent.
Being ignorant and superior is not a formula for success. Throw in arrogance ("I hear you write non-fiction, which doesn't interest me as a form") and smugness("I think The New Yorker would be astonishingly interested in my work"), and you have the recipe for "Go-Soak-Your-Head, Bozo," a dish best served cold.
Okay, I've calmed down now.
My suggestions? Ask those you trust for advice. Listen carefully. Make your own decision. Give advice to those who ask. Hope they listen. Calm down if they don't.
