Ya’ll deserve a bone.
I’m in the darkest throes of my first draft. I’ve been here before, stuck in the never-ending monstrosity of slogging it out. When you never feel like the end will come, that the thing will actually be done. For me, right now, my manuscript feels incomplete. It is incomplete. Even though I’ve technically written 74,714 words of my contractual 80,000. One would think a 93% hit rate would cheer me up. I mean, I am happy, there are plenty of words on the page, but I know it’s a false happiness. I know this because I know some (many? a lot?) of these words are wasted.
See, I took a few days and went back to the drawing board. Writing board, in my case. My outline. I opened the digital version and deleted what I had written. Yes, the horror! A blank slate! But I knew my outline had shifted, morphed, matured. And, just like the summer of 2022, I knew I needed a clear path ahead. That writing for writing’s sake was not productive. That I needed a story to follow, one that went in the direction I wanted it to go. Steered it to go.
I have always been more of a pantser than a plotter when it comes to writing, though perhaps that’s a bit unfair on myself as I do tend to have an outline in my head. Or certainly a motivation or driving force (idea) that I want to spit out. See, I find I write best when I have a point to make. An argument to argue. An anecdote to share. But I also know that my best writing combines the quick-win production of pantsing with the arduous-but-necessary plodding of plotting. (See what I did there?) That perhaps I can write a scene without fully outlining its details, but that I know it must fit neatly into the larger plot. This is something I struggle with, but each iteration brings me needed experience.
So, I rewrote my outline and new insights occurred to me as I scribbled (oh, yes; I went pen and paper on your ass). An idea for a better scene at the midpoint. A thought about story structure. How to composite a few minor characters together (because you can do that in memoir). What scenes I still needed to include, and why. A rumination on Trey Parker and Matt Stone’s “But, therefore” advice to NYU students (a two-minute YouTube clip which I’ve watched dozens of times). A revisit to my theme. A rewriting of my protagonist’s problem, need, and want. Maybe I’m wasting my time. Maybe I’m pretending that my energy is better spent looking at the forest than writing the trees, but I believe it was helpful. I believe that my deadline, though near, is still realistic. Maybe I won’t have the time I need for my beta readers before I turn it in. Maybe I won’t even have the best version of my manuscript. But I’m going to try, dammit.
I have also been reflecting on my assumptions and expectations. I’ve never thought to question the idea that my manuscript, when turned into my publisher, should be ready to be published. As in, that day. This is a previously unchallenged assumption I’ve carried around with me since day one. Publisher wants manuscript to publish. Voila! Maybe it stems from my background as an essayist. It’s weird to say, but looking at everything that’s actually been published, including my blog, it’s all essays. I’m a 1,000-word(ish) essay master. It’s clearly where I’m most comfortable, despite telling myself the opposite. That I write longform. That I’m writing a book. That I don’t write micro essays or flash nonfiction (which I’ve done). But the reason I went with a traditional publisher instead of the self-publishing route was for the built-in support offered to me. The editors. The proofreaders. The marketing team. The finance department. They will help me write the best book I can.
Another assumption: that writing emails doesn’t count as writing. This is clearly bullshit, as I’ve been writing emails since before college, when that was the main medium of my family’s communication. And when I say “email,” I mean a piece of writing that has taken at least 60 minutes to write. Because that’s how I was raised. (I kid you not, I’ve written 5,000-word emails before. Multiple times.) And I shouldn’t discount all the time spent crafting such a message, such a letter, which amounts to hundreds of thousands of written words that all add up to writing experience and practice. The juxtaposition of words against one another can occur in a “formal” setting like my grad school degree, or an informal one like a quick email. But I should correct myself to accept that all writing counts as writing, not just certain kinds.
Back to my book. I’m both excited and nervous. Hopeful and pessimistic. Energized and exhausted. I know I can write well. I know I have a story to tell. I even know I’ve got a pretty good outline and a decent shitty first draft. But I also know there is a lot of work ahead of me. And there are demands on my time all the time. I am trying to protect my writing time, even if I only get thirty minutes to write. As the autumn deepens and the temperature starts dropping, I know I’m racing my own clock. Although the nights will grow darker earlier, I know I’ve already got my path laid out, my flashlight ready, my team assembled. I need to trust in myself and my talents, my motivation and drive. Also, in the desire to say, “See, I told you so,” to a variety of naysayers, including the one that sometimes lives in my head. And, because it’s a fun fact, I like glancing at the bottom line of my first royalty statement that I printed the other day: -£500. Oh, yes. I’m in the financial hole of writing right now. Never fear.
This book is coming.
Captain Leatherneck 