"This is not a screenplay. I don't do twenty drafts. I'm not going to show this to you until it's published or accepted for publication. You can make whatever suggestions you want, but I probably will ignore them entirely"
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Parker’s refusal is less a tantrum than a declaration of jurisdiction: in his world, the work doesn’t become real through committee, endless polishing, or permission. It becomes real when it’s done. The opening line draws a hard border between two creative economies. A screenplay is built to be negotiated; a novel, in Parker’s telling, is built to be authored. By naming the other medium, he’s not merely distinguishing forms, he’s defending a professional identity: the writer as the final cut.
The “twenty drafts” jab is doing double duty. On the surface it’s bravado, a flex of speed and confidence from a famously prolific crime novelist. Underneath, it’s a rebuke of a certain workshop culture that treats revision as virtue in itself and process as performance. Parker implies that craft can look like decisiveness, that clarity can come from commitment rather than endless reopening.
The most pointed move is procedural: you don’t get to see it “until it’s published or accepted.” That’s not secrecy; it’s leverage. He’s minimizing the opportunity for feedback to metastasize into control, preserving the fragile stage where voice can be talked out of itself. Then comes the genial knife twist: “make whatever suggestions you want” is permission theater, immediately undercut by “I probably will ignore them entirely.” It’s funny because it’s rude with manners, and it’s rude because Parker understands how “help” often arrives carrying ownership claims.
Context matters: Parker wrote within genre publishing, where deadlines are real, markets are hungry, and the myth of the solitary pro still had currency. The quote is a compact manifesto for authority, velocity, and the right to disappoint your would-be collaborators.
The “twenty drafts” jab is doing double duty. On the surface it’s bravado, a flex of speed and confidence from a famously prolific crime novelist. Underneath, it’s a rebuke of a certain workshop culture that treats revision as virtue in itself and process as performance. Parker implies that craft can look like decisiveness, that clarity can come from commitment rather than endless reopening.
The most pointed move is procedural: you don’t get to see it “until it’s published or accepted.” That’s not secrecy; it’s leverage. He’s minimizing the opportunity for feedback to metastasize into control, preserving the fragile stage where voice can be talked out of itself. Then comes the genial knife twist: “make whatever suggestions you want” is permission theater, immediately undercut by “I probably will ignore them entirely.” It’s funny because it’s rude with manners, and it’s rude because Parker understands how “help” often arrives carrying ownership claims.
Context matters: Parker wrote within genre publishing, where deadlines are real, markets are hungry, and the myth of the solitary pro still had currency. The quote is a compact manifesto for authority, velocity, and the right to disappoint your would-be collaborators.
Quote Details
| Topic | Writing |
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