"I'm a writer..."

One of my favourite anecdotes in the insightful, barbed book "Nickeled and Dimed: On (Not) Getting By in America" by Barbara Ehrenreich concerned a crisis of conscience.

(One-sentence summary if you don't know the book: Ehrenreich takes a series of minimum-wage jobs and writes about the work and personal life she experiences as a result.)

At one job, she decided to reveal her real identity, and said, "I'm not really a waitress... I'm a writer." Her co-worker quickly replied, "Oh! I'm a writer too!"

Ehrenreich realized that whether it's a sheaf of poems written in sparkle pen, a memoir of a childhood on the move or song lyrics, many of her colleagues considered themselves writers.

Ehrenreich did not ask if they too had won a Pulitzer; she was touched that so many people tended their modest projects. However, there are worlds within that label, writer.

In the days of the medieval guilds, a craftsman could not adopt a title such as goldsmith before progressing through apprentice, journeyman and master levels. I'm not advocating adoption of a formal credentialing process, and I have no idea when the moment of fully-feathered status arrives. People will claim their place as they choose.

But I dislike how readily blogging can generate a false sense of mastery. Push "Enter" and your chapter or poem is 'published'. Commenters tend to offer lavish compliments, ignoring issues of structure, usage, and other basics of the craft.

For the aspiring author, unstinting praise from other hopeful writers is the deep-fried Mars Bar of feedback, unctuous yet empty. Eventually they become suspicious and wonder, "If so many people think I'm great, why are my submissions rejected?"

I never point out their errors or say what I'm thinking: take a writing class, buy an armful of books, read and analyze. Learn the difference between "seen" and "scene" or "fewer" and "less"; absorb the basics of style.

The lone time I raised this concern (without reference to the blogger's writing), she deleted my comment.

Malcolm Gladwell says in "Outliers: The Story of Success", that ten years of study and practice are the minimum to build the base of a vocation. He seconds the opinion of George Leonard, in his book "Mastery". Does one get there on praise alone?

I have been edited by one of the most-respected journalists in the country, a man who could parse the square root of a word. His hand was revelatory, humbling, confirming. Though it put my ego through a blender, I deeply appreciated his guidance. He didn't change every line.

That feedback was worth ten thousand fulsome compliments.

Creative work is joy interwoven with struggle. If writers at all levels of proficiency consider both criticism and praise as useful information, we might, with hard work and luck, manifest our talent.