The unexpected

I’m often questioned as to how I can be surprised by something that happens in the book that I am writing when I am the one doing the writing.

“Don’t you know what’s going to happen next?” Oftentimes the answer is no, and this is one of my favorite parts about writing. Here’s a great example:

In my current manuscript, my protagonist, Milo, is attempting to check out of a hotel. There are several stumbling blocks in this process that I won’t get into now, but eventually Milo must interact with the desk clerk in order to settle his bill and leave. Standard hotel procedure, if you will.

But here’s the surprise. It turns out that the desk clerk, a woman named Lily, has a role in my book. In fact, she’s the central figure in the longest chapter that I’ve written so far. But until Milo began speaking to Lily, I had no idea who this woman was and never expected her to play anything more than a bit role in the story. In fact, I expected Milo and Lily’s conversation to last no more than three to four sentences.

But as Milo began talking, Lily responded, and before I knew it, a new chapter was born.

This is what I mean by being surprised. In my mind, Milo should’ve been in North Carolina by now, attempting to complete his self-assigned mission. But along the way, Lily appeared. And this chapter involving her seemed to almost write itself.

At least two characters in SOMETHING MISSING were also surprises to me, and both play pivotal roles in the novel. 

I know it sounds strange that a writer can be surprised about the words that he writes, but this is why I urge reluctant, lazy writers or writers who have big plans but no pages yet to just sit down and start pecking away at the keys.

You never knew what might happen.

My beginning

In the acknowledgements of SOMETHING MISSING, I thank Mark Compopiano, my high school English teacher, for teaching me that “words can change minds.” When I entered Mr. Compo’s English class, I thought of myself of a good writer. Though I couldn’t type or spell to save my life and nothing I submitted was ever on time, the words and sentences came easily to me, and I had a lot to say. I wrote for the school newspaper and kept a diary off and on during my high school career, and I wrote lots of notes to girls.

Though I never thought that writing could become a career for me, I also managed to make a little money with my ability. For a short period of time, I went into the business of writing and selling term papers for my fellow students. Charging between $25-$100 depending on the topic and length of the paper, I managed to buy my first car, a 1976 Chevy Malibu, with the profits of this covert operation.

The day that changed life as a writer was November 29, 1988. On that day, I handed in an assignment in which I was asked to write a satirical piece that expressed humor. I wrote a piece on how America claims to be the land of the free, yet young men can be forcibly sent to foreign countries in order to kill strangers. I also noted that it is illegal to engage in prostitution and commit suicide, both seemingly personal decisions, and that many states restricted the rights of homosexuals.

In reading this piece today, I cringe. It is not well written. It is not funny. It is barely satirical. But on that November morning, I was certain that I was handing in a masterpiece, so three days later, December 2, 1988, when Mr. Compo handed back the assignment with a grade of B-, I was confounded. Scrawled across the paper were the words "Not satire" (as well as "Many spelling errors!"). At the top of the page, Mr. Compo had written:

Some of this is not satire. It’s too obvious.

I disagreed. Despite his years of experience, I had decided in that moment that Mr. Compo was wrong. He had no clue what satire was and had missed the whole point of my piece. Emboldened by overconfidence and teenage bravado, I approached his desk and protested my grade. We debated the merits of my piece for a while, and finally, he offered a solution:

Read the piece to the class. If a majority believes that it is satire, I will increase your score by one letter grade. But if a majority agrees with me, we decrease your score by one letter grade.

Basking in self-assurance and unable to resist a challenge, I agreed. Though this was a serious English class filled with many serious-minded, teaching-pleasing girls, I was also certain that I was right and that they would side with me.

They did.

By a unanimous vote, the class declared my work as satire and my B- was instantly transformed into an A-. I still have the assignment upon which the change in score is noted.

After reading the piece aloud, Mr. Compo admitted that the tone in which I read the piece helped in delineating the satire quite a bit, and what initially sounded dry and rhetorical came to life as I spoke the words.

Some of David Sedaris’s work can be like this. Read it and you think, “That was amusing.” Listen to him read it and you’re rolling on the floor in fits of laughter.

Don’t get me wrong. I was no David Sedaris, nor am I anywhere in his league today. My piece, which was entitled Welcome to America, is amateurish, silly, and somewhat embarrassing as I read it today, but on that December morning, I learned that my words are capable of changing minds. On that morning, I had changed the mind of a man I respected a great deal, perhaps the man who I respected the most at that time, and from then on, I knew that I wanted to write.

It would be another fifteen years before I would even begin writing SOMETHING MISSING, but the short stories, the Op-Eds, the poetry, and everything else that followed can be traced back to that December morning when I read a piece of writing and changed a teacher’s mind.

Thank you, Mr. Compo.

My writing group

About six months ago, I gathered some friends who are interested in writing and formed a writing group. We meet about once every other month and discuss our work. It’s quite a varied group. We have fiction writers, poets, a singer/songwriter, essayists, and a pulp fiction writer in our ranks, and the work that we critique at each meeting is always a panoply of genres and words.

Next month I am hosting the meeting in my new home.

Our group had a less an auspicious start. About a year ago, I was forwarded information on a local fiction writer’s meeting that was looking for new members. Excited about the prospect of meeting and conversing with fellow writers, I trudged out on a cold winter night, where I found about a dozen people meeting around a table on the upper floor of a local library.

I couldn’t believe it. Writers excited about their craft, gathering on a weeknight, notebooks piled around a large, oval table, presumably filled with brilliant ideas, finely crafted sentences, and unexpected word choices.

I thought I had found heaven.

The meeting begins with a gentleman at the head of table welcoming the writers, though as far as I can tell, he's just another writer, somehow acknowledged as our moderator, though I am not sure how. Everyone seems to know one another, laughing and chit chatting like old friends. I appear to be the only new face this evening.

Presumed head honcho explains that we will begin with introductions. "Please tell us who you are, what kind of writing that you do, and any recent success that you’ve had with publishing."  People around the table tell us their names, a little bit about their current manuscripts, and news about contests entered, contests found, and in one case a contest won. Flash fiction. A prize of $10 plus the story will appear on the contest sponsor’s website next month. Light applause.

Then it’s my turn. Less than six months ago, I sold my first novel to Doubleday, but not wanting to grandstand, I try to downplay my accomplishment.

“I’m a novelist, though I write some poetry and non-fiction too.”

“Any publishing credits?” someone asks.

“Sure. A few op-ed pieces and a couple articles in some educational journals. I’m a teacher, you see.”

“Anything else?” head honcho inquires.

“Well, I sold my first novel a couple months ago, but it won’t be out for more than a year.”

At news of this, everyone sits up. The questions come fast.

Who bought the novel?

How much was the sale price?

Is it a multi-book deal?

How did you find a publisher?

I answer as many questions as I can, declining to talk finances but explaining the process by which I found an agent and eventually sold the book. As the group asks clarifying questions, two things become clear to me:

These people do not like me.

I am not in heaven.

I explain that after finding an agent, things got a lot easier, as she was able to guide me through the revisions that the manuscript needed. A woman fires back. “How the hell did you find an agent? Did you know somebody?”

“No, I didn’t know anybody.”

I explain the process, and as I do, it becomes clear that the group cannot fathom me writing the whole book before ever finding someone to represent me. Though everyone in the group seems to be writing to one degree or another, they all seem to believe that short stories and flash fiction are they way to go until they find a literary agent. All seem to loathe the idea of spending the time to write a novel before being paid by a publisher upfront.

I begin to wonder how I can leave early, as this meeting is scheduled to last three hours.

In the midst of my interrogation, a woman describes her plan for a three book project; two novels and a nonfiction compendium that would later delve into some of the nonfiction elements of her fiction. She asks me for the best way to proceed in finding an agent to represent and sell her ideas.

“How about writing the first book first?” I say.

It’s as if I have shouted blaspheme from the rooftops of the world. She actually snorts a combination of disbelief and annoyance in my general direction.

Eventually the group turns its attention to the three writers scheduled to be critiqued and their pieces: a science fiction story, a piece of flash fiction, and a cliché short story about a grieving protagonist who eventually drowns himself.

Though I have not received copies ahead of time, the work is passed to me and I am able to read it and make some comments as the group discusses. The flash fiction, 526 words in all, is quite good, but when I make a suggestion for revision, I realize that my critical remark is the first of the evening, and it is met with scorn. Apparently this group is less interested in critical exchange and more interested in congratulatory commentary.

The science fiction is a little overdone but clever nonetheless, and when I suggest adding simulated newspaper accounts to the story, perhaps in a sidebar, to move the plot forward, I am again given the cold shoulder.

Not simply a polite rejection of the idea, but a dismissive wave.

There is no hope for the suicide by drowning story, but when I offer a joke referencing Ophelia, it’s met with bewilderment and at least one eye roll.

Thankfully, the meeting breaks half an hour early. On my way home, I decide to form my own group.

The results thus far have been pleasing. Though we don’t meet as often as I’d like, and we can’t all attend every meeting, we’ve always had at least four members present, which is fine by me. At our last meeting, the group critiqued the first four chapters of the new book, and some of their comments helped me to come closer to the heart of my protagonist and understand him much better.

And no one has snorted in my general direction yet, which is refreshing.

International

My mother-in-law found SOMETHING MISSING listed on the Japanese version of Amazon today. 

Kind of neat.  Huh?

While I'm not certain, I think this is actually an English version of the book, being sold in Japan.  As far as I know, the international rights to the book have been sold to publishers who will translate it into German, Korean, and Russian. 

In Germany, it will be called The Good Thief.  Apparently SOMETHING MISSING doesn't translate well. 

Oddly enough, the book will only be translated into the languages of former enemies of the United States.

I found this amusing, until I realized that that the list of former enemies is quite long.  Even nations like Britain, Mexico, Spain, Italy and France make the list.

One step closer

The Advanced Reader Copy for SOMETHING MISSING arrived today! An ARC is (in the words of Wikipedia) is a copy of a book released by its publisher before the book has gone to press. ARCs do not have the final dust jacket, formatting or binding of the finished product. The text of an ARC may also differ from that of the published book if the book is edited after the ARC is produced (I’m not sure if mine was or not). ARCs are normally distributed to reviewers, bookstores, and magazines between three and six months before the book is officially released.

It’s very exciting. Though it is not be a true copy of the book, it’s a close facsimile, and it represents another step closer to the actual publication. July of 2009 once seemed so far away, but it’s starting to become a much more tangible reality. I also feel fortunate that my publisher has decided to produce an ARC for reviewers and the like, since this is often not the case.

A couple months ago, Melissa, my editor, sent me a hardcopy of the cover of my book, wrapped around another book for appearance sake. She wanted to give me an idea of what the book would actually look like with the cover. While the inside of the book did not contain my words, just seeing the cover on any book was thrilling.

The book that she wrapped the cover around was Quick, Before the Music Stops: How Ballroom Dancing Saved My Life.

While I’m sure that this is a fine book, it’s certainly not something that you would find me reading on a rainy Sunday afternoon, and as a result, some of my friends have taken great pleasure in ribbing me about Melissa’s choice.

I can’t help but wonder if she chose the book on purpose, just to be amusing.

Strunk, White and the placenta

Last night Elysha and I attended our final birth class. Though the first two classes were highly informative and well worth my time, this was the class that included the breathing exercises and the dreaded videos.

Not a night to remember.

It turns out that the breathing exercises are merely a diversion from the pain. I was under the impression that this rhythmic breathing somehow assisted in the actual labor and delivery of the baby, but not so. These exercises are designed to provide a focal point for a mother in labor pain. A distraction, if you will. While this may work with some women, I tried to explain to the instructor (without much success) that I have a multitude of ways to divert Elysha’s attention without the assistance of the Hee-Hee-Hoos (the actual name for one of these breathing techniques).

Play her a hitherto unheard song by an obscure singer who is performing with a new band and ask her to identify the singer and lead guitarist.

Ask her to name a dozen films in which Corey Haim, Corey Feldman, or both, starred.

Place knitting needles and some yarn in her hands.

Sit her down in front of Photoshop.

These activities can concume Elysha for hours.  

And speaking of alternative diversions, could you imagine the diversions that men would have invented had we been the ones to experience labor pain and give birth? I promise you that the Hee-Hee-Hoos would not be included in the arsenal of distractions.

I also learned that labor pain is very similar to passing a kidney stone, meaning that some unlucky men are capable of experiencing a pain quite similar to childbirth, without the benefits of an epidural, of course.

This is not a fact that women seem to be anxious to publicize to the world.

But I digress. There is a point to all this, and it relates to writing. I promise.

The class ended with video footage of three different deliveries, filmed in documentary form. Why we needed to watch women in agony, babies crowning and abdomens sliced open for a cesarean sections is beyond me, but uncertain if I will be able to remain standing and conscious during the birth of my own child, I opted not to watch the suffering of others. Among the many books and magazines that I carry in my bag is The Elements of Style, by William Strunk and EB White. Though I’ve read this book a dozen times or more, I am constantly reviewing it, finding the authors’ words (and especially Strunk’s) absolutely brilliant.

So in lieu of watching these awful, bloody, heart-wrenching videos. I merely raised The Elements of Style in front of my face and ignored the television completely.

Strunk, the author of much of the book, is especially amusing. I adore his blunt, straightforward approach to advice. As I was reading, I came across a few of his remarks that made me giggle, including this one, that apparently struck me at a less than apropos moment based upon the horrified look on one of my classmate’s faces:

Prestigious. Often an adjective of last resort. It’s in the dictionary, but that doesn’t mean you have to use it.

The Elements of Style. A perfect diversion from the bodily fluids and hypodermic needles associated with child birth.

How to make your wife cry

I have many reasons to write, and most are of the high-minded, creative sort. But I also like to make my wife cry.

It was a Friday in May, and I was at work. My students were in art class, gone for an hour. My student-teacher and I were sitting at my desk, discussing lesson plans for the coming week.

Just another Friday in a waning school year.

Then my cellphone rang, an exceptionally rare occurrence in the middle of the school day. Though I wouldn’t have normally answered it, the absence of the students, combined with the odd timing of the call, made me check to see who was calling. Whenever my cellphone rings in the middle of the day, I expect the worst, and rarely am I mistaken.

This day I was.

It was Taryn, my agent, with news on SOMETHING MISSING, my first novel. Doubleday had made a preemptive offer. Though my book was slated to go on the market for sale the following week, Taryn had passed a copy on to an editor at Doubleday, and they were now attempting to purchase the book before anyone else had a chance to make a bid.

Their offer was for more than I could have ever dreamed.

In that one moment, my entire life changed. Wedding debt that had saddled us for two years was suddenly erased. My dog’s recent spinal surgery was suddenly paid for. Our dream of purchasing a home and starting a family, one that we thought was at least three and probably five years off, was suddenly within our grasp.

Someone in New York City wanted to pay me for something I made up in my head.

I couldn’t believe it.

Teary-eyed and trapped between laughter and genuine weeping, I thanked Taryn as much as a person can do in one minute, told her to do whatever she thought was best in the ongoing negotiations for the foreign rights, and hung up the phone, almost unable to breathe. I had one thought in mind:

Find my wife.

I stood up, hugged my student teacher, who had been sitting beside me the whole time, and headed for Elysha’s classroom up the hall in order to tell her the news. I couldn’t wait.

But her classroom was empty. Her students were in music class, meaning Elysha could be anywhere, doing anything. Prepping lessons. Trapped in a meeting. Making photocopies. Grabbing a snack. I began a frantic search of the school, looking everywhere. The copy room. The faculty room. The main office. Her colleagues’ classrooms. Even the restrooms. I bumped into friends and coworkers along the way, some of whom saw the wild-eyed look on my face and asked me if I was okay, but I did not tell anyone my news.

I wanted to tell Elysha first.

After more than fifteen frantic minutes, I finally found her walking down a hallway behind the auditorium. I grabbed her shoulders and stopped her midstride. From my appearance, she thought that something was wrong. She asked if I was alright. Then I told her the news.

I thought she would be excited. I did not expect her to collapse to the ground, crying hysterically, but that is what she did. She fell to my feet, back against the wall, cheeks red, tears rolling down her face, weeping into her hands.

Colleagues poked their heads from classrooms, certain that something terrible had just happened.

Some were convinced that I had just broken up with her.

I was so happy. In fact, it’s one of the happiest moments of my life. The phone call from Taryn, and the subsequent calls from her that afternoon, informing me of the increase in the sale price as negotiations concluded, were great, but to knock your wife off her feet with news like that was indescribable.

I’d only done it once before.

Four years earlier, I had proposed to Elysha on the top steps of Grand Central Station, her favorite place in the world. It was three days after Christmas and about a week before her birthday, so she wasn’t expecting the proposal at all. Sprinkled amidst the multitude of holiday shoppers, business people, and the like were about thirty of our friends and family who had traveled to Grand Central ahead of us to take up positions in the crowd.

Exiting the train, we climbed the stairs, and when we reached the top, I grabbed Elysha’s hand and stopped her. The proposal went like this:

Me: I chose this place because I know it’s your favorite room in the world.

Elysha: Yeah…

Me: And I wanted a place that would always be here, so that someday we could show our kids, so…could you hold my book? (I had a book in my hand and wasn’t smooth enough to drop it to the floor. Elysha took the book and I removed the ring box from my pocket. Just then a policewoman stepped beside us.)

Policewoman: Please keep moving. You can’t block the stairway. (A second later she saw the ring box and smiled.) Oh… (stepping back)

Me: (Dropping to one knee)

Elysha: (Starting to cry)

Me: (On one knee) Elysha Green, I love you with all my heart and want to spend the rest of my life with you. (Opens the ring box) Will you marry me?

Elysha: (Starts crying and reaches out to hug me, NEVER ANSWERING THE QUESTION!)

Friends: (Screaming in the distance, immediately surrounded by National Guard Soldiers)

Me: That’s all of our friends screaming honey…

Elysha: (Continuing to cry)

Friends: After assuring the soldiers that they weren’t in some kind of distress or preparing to commit an act of terrorism, they raced up the stairs, shouting and cheering.

Elysha: Oh my God. Where did you all come from?

The rest was great. After the proposal, we all enjoyed lunch at Ruby Foos and then made our way down to Rockefeller Center to check out the tree. Snow was lightly falling, the streets were abuzz with holiday shoppers, and the day couldn’t have been more perfect.

Elysha, however, has yet to answer my question.

Nevertheless, she is crying in almost every photo taken that day. She would later cry throughout much of our wedding ceremony as well, but I can’t take full credit for those tears. The wedding was more than just me.

Which leads me back to the reason that I write, or at least one of them:

I want to make my wife cry once again. As I work on finishing my second book by the end of December, I have many goals in mind.

1.  Finish the book and discover Milo’s fate. I honestly can’t wait to find out what happens.

2.  Share my story with readers.  I can't tell you how satisfying it is to know that you've brought a little entertainment and insight into a person's life.

3.  Sell the book so we can remodel the kitchen, replace the windows, and increase our options in terms of childcare for the fall.

4.  Prove to myself that my first book wasn’t just a fluke.

But I also want to make my wife cry again, like she did that day in the hallway behind the auditorium. To bring so much joy to someone who I love so much might just be the greatest reward of all.

And so I write. With ten days of vacation in my near future, I hope to churn out the last 30,000 words of my latest manuscript.

Fingers crossed that there are more tears in my near future.

Literary and humorous

Each day, Something Missing seems to pop up on another bookselling website, and each time Google Alert informs me of this, it’s just as exciting as the first time.

Though admittedly the book’s appearance on places like Amazon and Barnes and Noble were a little more breathtaking than the others.

What I’ve found most interesting of late is the categories under which the book is listed:

Fiction- Literary; Fiction- Humorous.

The Literary tag simply implies that the book is of a serious nature, focusing more on style, psychological depth, and character, whereas mainstream commercial fiction (the page-turner) focuses more on narrative and plot (this definition from Wikipedia).

I like this distinction. Though I actually think that the book is a bit of a page turner and has strong mass appeal, the English major in me would like to think that the book is more than just a paperback suspense novel about a thief. It certainly focuses more on character than plot (I started writing with the character in mind and no plot whatsoever) and I like to think that the attention I paid to stylistic elements have been noticed and appreciated.

But it’s the Humorous tag that has me especially intrigued.

You see, I cannot remember a single moment in the writing of the book when I tried to be funny. In fact, had you asked me if the book was humorous while I was writing it, I would’ve said, “No. No way. Not a chance in the world, buster.” In my mind, I was writing a story about an unusual and quirky guy and the life that he had created for himself, but never did I think the book would be considered humorous.

Don’t get me wrong. I love the humorous tag (what writer doesn’t want to be thought of as funny?), and in rereading the book, I saw the humor in the story, discovered it really, and found myself laughing out loud at my own words from time to time. But in some vomit-inducing, artsy-granola way, it wasn’t me being funny.

It was Martin.

Martin’s life; his thoughts and ideas, the way in which he lives, and the principles that guide him turned out to be funny. I didn’t try to make them funny, nor was I even aware of the humor in his life during the writing process. I only found it later. Once I had stopped whapping on keys.

So I find the tag quite surprising. When asked to describe the genre of my book, I have great difficulty. People seem to think that all fiction falls into one of four categories: Suspense, horror, political thriller and chick lit. Though Something Missing certainly has a good deal of suspense, it’s not a suspense novel. Taryn, my agent, has described the book as quirky fiction, and I think this is an apt description, though it often leaves people scratching their heads, wondering what the hell quirky fiction is.

In the future, perhaps I’ll add the word humorous to my mangled description.

It will at least make me feel good.

Stealing from real life

Something Missing is a work of fiction. Even so, there are elements of my own life contained therein. Several characters are loosely based upon friends and acquaintances, certain plotlines vaguely resemble actual moments in my life, and specific incidents and locales inspired parts of the story.

Sometimes I think that Something Missing is little more than personal therapy wrapped up in humor, suspense and story. And the new book is shaping up in much the same way.

Obviously it’s common for authors to draw from real life experiences. That awful cliché Write what you know has some truth to it. And while Something Missing, as well as my current manuscript, are most certainly fiction (despite what some members of my wife’s family might suspect… I am constantly asked if I was some kind of a thief in my past), certain themes and elements are taken from my own life.

Take my mother-in-law, for example.

EBay, the online auction site, plays a small but somewhat significant role in my book. When it came time to research EBay, in order to ensure the veracity of the details surrounding this online world, I turned to Barbara, my mother-in-law, who is an EBay power seller, for advice. Barbara has created a small business for herself through EBay, and listening to her speak about it is like attending a Pentecostal tent revival. She loves EBay and might be convinced that EBay will someday save the world.

Through her business, she has managed to make friends with women from around the world, and she takes genuine pleasure in selling high end handbags and fashion at a fraction of the retail price to women in states like North Dakota or countries like Tanzania like that suffer from a tragic lack of Prada boutiques and Coach outlets. I sometimes wonder if she even cares about the profit. It’s almost as if she thinks of herself as a fashion ambassador, bringing high end goods to women in need.

Not being at all fashion conscious and finding the mere existence of a $500 handbag offensive and insane (and this coming from a guy who carries a bag), I turned to Barbara when it came time to write the chapter dealing with EBay. More precisely, I turned to her EBay auctions, crafting the online persona of Barbara Teal from my mother-in-law, Barbara Green.

It was quite fun. Gathering material from her dozens of auction descriptions, as well as the blog that she writes about her EBay experiences, it was simple to create an online persona for Martin (the main character of the novel) that was interesting, amusing, and genuine.

And paying minor homage to your mother-in-law in your first novel can’t hurt.

When to revise?

Danny (an old high school friend, perhaps?) asks:

When you write, do you draft everything quickly and then rewrite later, or do you craft each sentence until it is done?

Every writer is different. There are some who just blaze through their first draft as quickly as possible, doing all the revision later on. Stephen King writes like this and describes the process in his book, On Writing. He explains that if he doesn’t get the first draft out fast enough, he loses the sense of the characters. He writes at least ten pages a day, which in my world would be a lot.

Then again, he writes fulltime and has managed to write multiple novels in a single year, whereas mine seem to take about two years to finish.

Others write, edit and revise each sentence before moving onto the next, tinkering and rewriting until they have achieved perfection, so that when they are done their first draft, the book is essentially done. Kurt Vonnegut, one of my favorite authors, wrote this way. He would write and rewrite a page until it was done, and when it was done, it was done.

I fall somewhere in the middle.

Ideally, I’d like to think that I write like Vonnegut, crafting each sentence and paragraph until they are perfect. Sharing chapters with readers the way that I do necessitates this style to a degree. There has to be at least a little polish to the pages before I can ask friends to read them. But it’s also the way in which I am most comfortable. I can’t stand the thought of unfinished business, so to leave an unrevised page behind doesn’t sit right with me. I want it cleaned up and ready to go before moving on.

But invariably, revision is required. When I finished Something Missing, I felt that it was done. Click the save icon and move onto the next book. Don’t look back. But since that moment, the manuscript has been revised a great deal, first with the help my agent, Taryn, and then with my editor, Melissa. Between the two of them, they guided me through the process of shifting chapters in order to improve pacing, expanding upon elements of the story that I had never considered important, and retracting sections of the text that were unnecessary. It took some time, but the book is much the better for the work we did.

A copyeditor then cleaned up some of my prose (each change made with my approval) and I just finished a proofread in which still more changes, albeit minor, were made.

What I came to learn is that there is no correct process to writing a book. It must be your process. Don’t try to emulate King’s or Vonnegut’s style. Just write. See what happens. I fear that some people spend too much time thinking about writing when they should just be writing.

I know I did.

Something Missing on Facebook

My buddy, Tom, started a Fans of Something Missing group on Facebook last week. It’s already got about forty members, even though most of them have yet to read the book. Yesterday he assigned me a title: President of Writing and Publishing Department.

He is President of the Shameless Promotion Department.

It’s good to have friends.

Actually, it’s been surprising to experience the excitement and investment that my friends have had with the book. Because I had about a dozen or more people reading Something Missing while I was writing it, many of their suggestions, ideas, and thoughts were eventually embedded within the text. Whether it was a specific idea for revision or just a comment or thought that altered my way of thinking about the book, each one of my readers left an indelible mark on the story and its characters. Some of them even began to speak of the main character, Martin, as a real person, and even to this day, outsiders and strangers are sometimes confused when listening to one of my friends speak about Martin as if he were included in our circle of friends.

So as I went through the process of finding an agent and selling the book, my readers came along with me, celebrating my achievements, but in a way, also celebrating their own, since they each had a hand in shaping the story to what it has now become.

Including Tom.

If you have a Facebook account, check out the group. Once the book is actually available for purchase, perhaps these much appreciated fans will actually have something to chat about!

Division of labor

One of the challenges of writing, at least for me, is how to divide my time, my attention and my energy.  Holding down a job as an elementary school teacher (and finding it difficult to imagine ever giving up this job), my time spent writing is limited.  Oftentimes, several aspects to my writing career pull at me from opposite directions, and as a result, I can end up feeling guilty and frustrated over some neglected element of my work.

Take this past week for example. 

I'm currently working on my second novel.  A couple months ago I sent the first half of the book to my agent in order to solicit her impressions of my progress so far, and she responded with five or six pages of notes. Suggestions for revisions, for the most part, with just enough praise to keep me going.

She really knows what she’s doing when it comes to this stuff.

Initially I decided to put these notes aside, finish the book, and then go back and revise.  But as I plodded forward, I realized that some of Taryn's suggestions might impact the decisions that I was about to make in terms of plot and character. I was also anxious to begin applying some of her suggestions to the text (I enjoy the revision process a great deal), so without much thought, I began dedicating a little time each day to revising the manuscript from the beginning. And each day that little bit of time grew and grew.

At the same time, I continued my work on the latest chapter, finding the progress that I was making exciting and fun. Whenever things are moving along smoothly, I hate to stop writing in fear that I may prematurely sputter out. Before long, I found myself working on the manuscript from both ends, jumping back and forth like a jack rabbit, revising one minute and writing new content the next. I wondered if it was a good idea to be revising the first half of the book while advancing the second half of the story, but both the writing and the revision process held too much of an allure for me to quit.

At this time, I was also supposed to be proofreading the latest version of Something Missing, which had arrived a couple weeks earlier from my editor. While this was probably the most important of my current tasks, I allowed it to linger a bit, assuming that I could just breeze through proofreading in a night or two. Late last week, I attempted to execute this plan but discovered that there were edits to be made on every third page or so, necessitating a slower and more careful read on my part. It’s now four days later and I’m still not done, and this evening I was forced to email my editor and warn her that the manuscript might be a day or two late in arriving.

But every minute that I spend reading Something Missing is a minute spent away from the new manuscript, which is still clamoring for attention at both ends.

What’s a writer to do?

And these are not my only projects at the moment. There is this blog, of course, which I would like to write for everyday if I had time, as well as a blog where I write to my unborn child every day. Then there is the Op-Ed piece on my refusal to wear a neck tie ever again just waiting to be finished, and a couple more that should've been started already. And if I really had some time, I have a couple children’s books that I could be wrapping up as well as a poetry contest that I had hopes of entering.

Like I said, it’s difficult finding ways to divide my time amongst my many writing interests.

Fortunately, I have a solution which I have always been able to fall back on in times like these:

Sleep less.

It’s not always easy, but it helps.