I’ve been thinking about the Ideal Reader—a concept that comes dangerously close to the “avatar” businesses are supposed to develop for their target customer. But I want to imagine this reader so that I can tenderly hold them in my heart.

Yes, that’s corny. But it’s also not something you’d do with an avatar. Avatars are for focusing your business plan; an ideal reader is—or can be—emotionally real rather than demographically real.

A long time ago I wrote for an audience under which I was beginning to chafe. This was a beliefs-based market and my beliefs were changing. Aspects of the market were beginning to sicken me. But it had provided a steady income for years, and I had contracts to fulfil.

One month I had a story to write and I was getting nowhere. I had normally been able to “translate” my shifting beliefs into something that gave me common ground with my audience, but this time I recognized that my perception of my audience was growing disdainful. This is not a good place from which to write anything authentic.

So I zeroed in. For whom was I writing? What person that I knew might read the story and connect with it? I thought of my friend, K, a fellow mom in whose kitchen we had spent many hours confiding. It didn’t matter whether our beliefs were in lock-step. I knew her as a human. Disdaining her had never occurred to me.

She never knew it, but she was the one my inner storyteller sat down with as the story flowed. And what came out was something genuine—something I could send in good conscience.

I write for a different audience now. And I don’t do much with the Ideal Reader until it’s time to market the books. Usually, I tell my developmental editing and coaching clients to write free of a gaze. In the draft, we have to get the words out without self-consciousness. The last thing we need at that stage is a critic. We write for ourselves first.

Yet when I invited K to be my imaginary reader, she didn’t inhibit the story. Because—even though the real K never found out—she loved the story.

I want to try an experiment. Maybe you’ll try it with me?

Imagine you were invited to be a campfire storyteller at an early autumn gathering. You’ve never met these people, but when night falls, they are sitting in a circle of logs around you and a warm fire. Some put on hats as the air cools. Some huddle with friends or partners. Their eyes are on you. And you stand up and let the story unspool.

Storytelling is a particular art. I used to do this for large audiences, and you don’t get to stop and check a thesaurus. If you’re telling a new story to one of its first audiences, you’ll be skating along that high-wire of plot you remember and looking straight ahead. You’ll create a little something new in each telling—a character voice, a setting detail. If you make a “mistake” you incorporate it.

On this night, as your straight-ahead eyes flit from one person to the next, you notice someone. She’s leaning forward, her mouth slightly open. Her fists tighten on the scary parts, her head nods at the flashes of insight. She’s rapt.

The next night, she’s the first to the fire circle. She doesn’t talk to you, but once you begin to tell the next story, her whole body listens. During the day, you overhear her talking about your characters at lunch. She’s getting the others revved up for the evening tale. She can’t wait.

This is not a critic. This is a listener who is wholly devoted to your work. An ally. Someone who gets you. Anything you create, she wants to be there for it.

So who is she? Only you know that. Throw out thoughts of demographics, and create her as a character—a beloved listener. She’s not listening because she grew up with you or she’s your best friend—she’s listening because she wholeheartedly loves your stories.

Once you have her, invite her to the fire when you sit down to write—maybe just for one scene. You don’t have to do this all the time; we’re experimenting.

Let me know what happens. Is it different? Were you inhibited? What could you do so you would not be? How would you need to imagine her? What kind of invitation would you issue so that her listening could be the thing that revs your creative engine?

I want to keep going with this idea—to see what happens when we stop imagining an audience we have to impress and begin imagining a listener who wants the story.

So on Monday, September 14, I’m teaching The Reader by the Fire: Finding the Listener at the Heart of Your Story. We’ll use some intuitive approaches to tease out our Ideal Readers, and then we’ll write something for them. You can have more than one.

My hope is that these listeners become beloved companions—not people peering over our shoulders, but people we sometimes invite to the fire. And that when we do invite them, their listening tenderly carries us across the high-wire.

Love,
Katherine