Writing coach: I could do that

I don’t write novels, and my “debut pitch” happened decades ago.  Still, I find myself reading, “How Many Words in a Novel:  The Perfect Word Count for Your Debut Pitch.”

I get there the way so many of us flit from here to there in cyberspace, wasting milliseconds that add up to hours.  (Don’t believe me? Watch Tristan Harris’s TED talk.) 

Next, clicking onto “The 7 BIggest Storytelling Mistakes,” I am face-to-face with a nice-looking guy with impressive credentials and a warm smile. A writing coach   I could do that.

Now I’m down the rabbit hole, wondering how many writing coaches are there?  Apparently, no one’s keeping track, but  A Writing Coach’s Guide to Writing Coaches reports that “an online search reveals literally hundreds of thousands of listings for ‘writing coach.’” 

Hundreds of thousands?  Perhaps that’s because writers who once had flourishing careers are now paid dramatically less for the same work they did a decade ago — or they’re asked to write for “exposure” (translation: for free).  They call themselves “coaches,”  “editors,” or “book doctors” — and they have a range of skills and fee scales.  They run writing groups; some host unblock-yourself retreats. 

Not that there’s anything “wrong” (to paraphrase Seinfeld) with being a writing coach.  I was once a book doctor myself.  It started, as so many freelance jobs do, with a request to give my name to someone who has a fascinating untold story and wants to write a book.  The subsequent calls and emails rarely turn into actual work — but Rita was different. 

“Could you just take a look at what I have so far”? she asked. “I just want you to be honest.” If she couldn’t get her story published, it would be enough to write it for family and friends.  

Then in her seventies, Rita came to me through close friends. She was my old friend Jane’s son’s best friend’s mother.  I couldn’t say “no.”  Also, her story intrigued me.  Although an editor once told me, “Holocaust stories are a dime a dozen,” I wanted to hear more.  

Rita mailed me twenty single-spaced pages. Some were riveting, others confusing.  They sketched out a childhood running from the Nazis, stints in refuge camps, and an arduous journey to America.  We agreed she had to “unpack” her story — make scenes, add details, and put the words and chapters in a chronology that readers would understand.    

Rita was a quick study.  She spent the next year dredging up details from the past. Her first 20 pages became a 200-page manuscript — thankfully, double-spaced.  Though I repeatedly pointed out how “hard” it is for most people to write anything, no less a memoir, and warned that it might take an emotional toll, she was undaunted and determined.  Apparently, the vagaries of writing paled in comparison to surviving the War. 

Rita Ross’s first book, Running From Home: A Memoir, was published in 2009.   In the Acknowledgments of Running from Home, she talked about  the “coaching” experience from her perspective: 

My editor, shrink, teacher and mentor, Melinda Blau, who was relentless in getting me to do the best I was capable of, forced me to go back to my past and dig further than I want to, kept me focused, was always available for consultations.  She empowered and encouraged me by saying “I know you can do better than than.”  In the process, she helped me tackle the destructive roots lodged in my heart, bring them to light and give up my ongoing chronic bouts with depression.

Yes, I could be a book doctor/coach/editor.  It’s certainly easier to work on someone else’s words than slogging though my own.  Recently, in fact, a would-be author asked me to name my price.  I kept telling her she wasn’t ready (which she wasn’t).  I was also aware of the potential cost to me:    

In a world already rife with distractions, being someone’s coach just might be the greatest How To Not Write strategy of all!