Write for Strangers

The one-and-only Kurt Vonnegut has a list titled “Eight Rules for Writing.” All eight rules are helpful, but one has stuck with me more than the rest:

Rule #1: Use the time of a total stranger in such a way that he or she will not feel the time was wasted.

Gertrude Stein voiced a similar sentiment, saying, “I am writing for myself and strangers. This is the only way I can do it.” I think about these quotes frequently, especially when revising. One of the biggest steps to make as a writer is to stop writing for an audience of people you know and to start writing for total strangers.

As writers, it’s natural to imagine how people we know will react to our work. The problem with this, however, is that it takes our eye off the ball. If I’m thinking about a relative or an ex-classmate or a godawful boss – hoping they’ll one day read my words and react in a certain way – then my head isn’t in the right place. I’m no longer serving the story, I’m serving myself. I’m counting on my relationship with that person to inform their reading of the work. In other words, I’m not constructing a work that’s able to stand on its own.

This isn’t a problem when writing for strangers, who have nothing invested in you. They are there purely to be entertained, and if the book starts to waste their time, they’re out. Mom keeps reading because she’s your mom. Your friend from work keeps reading because she’d feel guilty to not finish. They are a bad audience because they’re subjective.

Strangers, on the other hand, are ruthlessly objective. How many times have you stopped a book within the first fifty pages? The first twenty? I once quit a book because the writer used the word “supped” instead of “ate.” (As in, “It had been ages since he last supped with his wife.”) It was an author I’d never heard of, and I’d already given him several chapters to capture my interest. He wasn’t doing it, so when he committed the minor sin of using a pretentious word, it was enough for me to put the book down for good.

If you know the author, you’re more forgiving. If it’s a spouse, friend, or favorite celebrity, the writing can lag and your connection to the author sustains your readership. But when the reader is a stranger, story is all that matters. Strangers are merciless. And if you’re a successful author, they make up the majority of your readers.

When you consider this, it changes how you write. Strangers aren’t impressed that your setting captures every last detail of your hometown. Or that your character’s epiphany midway through the book mirrors a personal moment of growth you had in your twenties. Your friends and family might care about that stuff, but strangers just want to turn pages. To quote Ben Percy, they’re saying, “Thrill me.”

Strangers are a gift to writers. They are an impartial source of truth, and capturing their fickle interest is a necessity if you want to succeed as an author. In a world of sanded-down edges and trophies for everyone, it’s easy to forget what it’s like to measure ourselves against something that will not bend to accommodate us. Strangers – capricious, demanding bastards that they are – give us that.

Don’t write for Mom, write for them.