What a year of writing looks like

I can’t think of a title for my first draft. (Yes, I know I told you I finished my “novel” but from here on out, until otherwise noted, I’m going to call it my first draft. No sense getting carried away.)

Emma is the main character, and from day one, I have simply thought of the work as Emma, but clearly, that will not do for a title. As you know, Emma has been taken.

On Tuesday, I took my portable USB drive over to Staples and asked them to print two copies of my draft. I secured a rubber band around one and stuffed it into a manila envelope. And because I have an odd addiction to shipping tape, I wrapped the envelope a few times too many, which I realize now, might make it impossible to open without a pair of scissors or a box-cutter. I sent this well-sealed package to a good friend, who also happens to be an award-winning writer and an editor, and a teacher of creative writing.

I ran the other copy through a 3-hole punch and placed it inside a 3-ring binder.

When I showed my son what 285 double-spaced pages looks like, he said, “My, that’s a lot of words.” And I said, “Yes. If I can do this, then you can write eight spelling words into sentences once a week without complaining.” I’m not sure whether I made my point. He simply rolled his eyes in response and wandered away.

I have one more story to share: On Tuesday, FedEx rang the bell and instead of leaving the package as they normally do, the driver was standing on the porch waiting for a signature. I signed, confused, wondering what could possibly be so important. I’m not going to tell you what my son said, because of course, he said, “Is that for me?” Only it wasn’t. It was for me. A bottle of very good champagne from a dear friend in Denver. My friend is a writer working on her first novel, too. She has been reading my pages all along and until that manila envelope reaches its destination, she is the only other person besides me to have read Emma’s story from start to finish.

Amazing thing, this internet. Say what you want about blogging and wasting time in front of a computer all day, but without this, the last year of my life would not have been possible.

 

I wonder if I’ll ever get used to it?

I didn’t think it would feel so— Hmmm. I don’t know. Strange?

I thought I might want to shout it out, celebrate in some way, do a little dance. But the truth is, I’m feeling a little skittish. I almost can’t bring myself to type the words. I’ve written and rewritten this post about five times so far.

Clearly, shouting it out is not going to happen. Maybe I could simply whisper it into the wind.

I finished my novel.

There. I did it. Now you know.

Wednesday, May 7, sometime before noon.

And yet I hesitate to leave it at that. I feel the need to couch it, to stress the rewrites and revisions yet to come; months, maybe even another year of work. It’s just a first draft.

But the truth is, I wrote a novel. (Yes, I’m still whispering.)

And someday you may even get to read it.

 

Is writing a novel a real job?

I am not good at saying no. Or, more accurately, I not well-schooled in placing value on my time and my work—particularly when that work is something like, say, writing a novel.

As a freelance writer, I’ve learned to eyeball an assignment and figure out how much time to give it, how many days or hours to set aside. But this book? Wow. That’s a different story. It requires a whole new level of discipline. A whole new syllabus in the word no.

Sorry, I can’t help out with teacher appreciation day. I have to write.

Can you call back later? I have to write.

No, I can’t attend the alumni breakfast. I have to write.

I really can’t meet for lunch. I have to write.

And yet I wonder, when I say and do these things—decline invitations, skip out on volunteering, let the answering machine pick up even though the phone is at my elbow—are people rolling their eyes and muttering to themselves “it’s not like she has a real job…”?

Is writing a novel a real job?

Our accountant was all over me the other day—peppering me with questions. So, what about this year? Do you think you’ll have any income? What should we count on? Will your novel sell? How much will you get? Why didn’t you get an advance? Will you have any other work? What about the freelance? Anything going on there?

Clearly, our accountant has much to learn about publishing. But putting that aside, the interesting thing to me, was how his questions made me feel. Maybe I’ve turned the corner because instead of feeling like I was wasting my time and squandering my earning potential, I felt newly committed to the path I’ve chosen. Even though my answers to nearly all of his questions were nothing and no, I walked away feeling pretty good.

Maybe saying no isn’t so hard after all.

 

Writing in bed…

…which does not instill quite the same work ethic as writing in the library, but on this grey day I find that I am very comfortable on my perch with my latte by my side and the Bose sending out the rhythmic and soothing sounds of Somebody’s Fool by Eddie Skuller. I sometimes think if my novel had a soundtrack, this would be it.

 

Nothing else to do

I’m learning something about myself as a writer. I thrive on routine. And the smallest distraction will send my routine into a tailspin. So, I have a new plan for finishing my work in progress.

I’m leaving home. (No, not really.) But I am going to start packing up the computer and my notes and spend my “writing time” in the library. We have a brand new beautiful library in one of our neighboring towns and I’m hoping that stepping away from the ringing phone and the thousand-and-one things that need to be done around the house, will allow me to focus and make some serious progress in the next three months.

If I don’t have a completed first draft in hand by the time we leave for California at the end of June, I worry that the chaos of summer will pull me so far away from my story that it will be impossible to pick it up again in September.

Right now, for me, this first draft is the Holy Grail. I need the whole story on the page—start to finish—so that in September when GP starts second grade, I can start my second draft. The time off, in the summer, will (hopefully) give me some perspective and a chance to have a small mix of trusted readers weigh in.

I diligently read the posts over at The Writers’ Group, and from these four women I have learned a lot. I have learned that my manuscript is not there yet, it is like the wooden frame of a house, waiting for walls and insulation and interior decorating. I know this and I accept it. To paraphrase another good friend, the best stuff happens on the other side, once the first draft is complete. And she wasn’t talking about “getting published” (though how cool would that be?!), she was talking about rewriting and editing and fine-tuning.

Lisa at Eudaemonia recently said this about the process and how steep the learning curve can be. At the end of her post, Lisa asks writers—published and unpublished—why are you writing that book?

Here’s why I write: Because there is nothing else for me to do. This is what sustains me.

 

Getting it right

About a week ago, I put my WIP on one of those portable USB drives and took it to Staples to get two copies printed. At 40,000 words, 159 pages (double-spaced), I thought it was time to read a hard copy.

Though writers say it all the time, it is enlightening to experience the work off screen, to hold pages in my hand, to read and actually feel the pacing, hear the cadence, see the gaps.

I feel well on my way here. I believe, for the first time, that I really can finish. And what happens after? Well, it almost doesn’t matter. Almost.

One of the things that struck me about what I have written so far is the timeline. It felt too strained, too artificial, too much like a framework that I needed more as a writer than a reader. So, I took a big long roll of easel paper and I mapped it out. I started before the book starts because much of the story is told as the main character remembers events leading up to the event. And as I took my pencil and wrote things down, erasing, moving, shifting scenes, I realized I didn’t need to break the book into parts as I originally envisioned. I realized that the story simply needed to flow—straight through—start to finish.

So with a few simple edits and less constraints, I am ready to begin the work on the second half. If I’m lucky, I’ll have a completed first draft by the time school lets out in June.

Oh, and that second copy? I sent it to a trusted reader. She called last night to say she sat up until 1 a.m. reading. She couldn’t put it down.

If that’s not motivation to finish, I don’t know what is.

 

Coming home

There was a point, before I started blogging, when I thought I might move my freelance work in the direction of writing essays—and getting paid for it. I was feeling very been-there-done-that with writing pieces for trade journals and custom publications. I was desperate for a change.

So I started writing about my son. A thousand words at a time. I submitted to parenting magazines, webzines, My Turn, Lives, you name it. Some of the editors I knew. Some I didn’t. All the while I was submitting, I was writing. After awhile, I wasn’t just writing about my son. I wrote about my father. My husband. Other things. And nothing. Not a single placement in over a year.

The rejections were always encouraging. “We loved this essay. Unfortunately, it isn’t quite right for our readers.” But in the end, none of it really mattered. In the end, I wound up here. Writing a novel. And feeling like I’ve come home.

I remember asking a friend—a talented and very published writer and editor—if he thought I could find a gig writing a parenting column. I think he said something along the lines of, “Stop looking for something else and go write your book.”

It took me a long time to hear what he was saying.

When I started blogging, I referred to myself as a freelance writer and essayist. And though I’ve written quite a few posts about my writing, it wasn’t until I started here that I was able to actually type the words, “…a writer, currently working on my first novel…” in the sidebar.

I hit 30,000 words today. And though I still don’t have a working title, I have written one-third of my novel.

One-third.

This is easily the hardest work I’ve ever done. It is my something else.

One-third.

It’s like coming home.

 

Seeing it through

We woke up this morning to a dusting of snow here on our long and narrow island. It’s been an interesting winter, weather-wise. More rain than snow, warmer temperatures than usual. Some of our trees are still holding on to their leaves. Nature is out of step here.

I’ve been out of step too, but that’s changing now. Righting itself.

As many of you know, I am at work on my first novel. I began the process at a run, early chapters simply spilled out of me, I couldn’t write fast enough or often enough. And then I simply stopped. Stuck. Bogged down by the holidays, challenges at my son’s school, the work itself.

This morning—after nearly six weeks of staring at a blank screen—I can feel it opening up again, I can feel the words ready. My fingers itch. My mind is racing. I am thinking of nothing but the work.

My main character lives out on the east end. I’ve loosely described the small beach house she and her son have moved into in bits scattered throughout the 10 chapters that I’ve already written. But last night I googled the community I have her living in. I looked at real estate, immediately discarding homes that were too luxurious or too small.

And then I found it. A classic A-shape with a small deck and a white pebble drive just steps from the beach. Last night, as I took my virtual tour, walking up the three steps to the deck, I let my hand run across the aged railing and I could feel the splinter pierce my skin.

I’ve heard that writing a novel is like building a house. Laying a foundation, putting in a frame, adding walls, floors, and, finally, the details. I see that now.

Most builders will tell you that once you start, you need to see it through to the end, to the paint on the walls and the rugs on the floors. A half-finished house easily falls prey to neglect, turning on itself in a way that will bring its walls down. It’s much the same with a novel. You have to see it through to the end.

I have so much work to do. And it is so easy to fall out of step. But today the sky is clearing, and I can see the house. Beyond it, the dunes are covered in beach grass. And I can hear the waves collapse against the shore. In this world of make believe, I am back in step.

And the work is waiting to be done.