“Wendelin, this is a real letter from a real editor. If you ever want to get published, you might want to consider what she has to say!”
“But…cut it in half?”
It took a few days, but I finally did sit down and look at the manuscript. And with so much time having passed since I’d written it—and with substantially more writing experience now under my belt—I grudgingly recognized the truth in her objections. The plot did meander. The structure was mushy.
But still. Cut it in half?
How was I ever going to do that?
I read through the manuscript several times, then finally rolled up my sleeves and started hacking. Whole chapters came out. I trimmed wherever I could. I streamlined the story and focused on tighter writing.
I also fudged the margins a tad (the opposite of what we do when trying to meet a page requirement in school) and worked to get each chapter that ended on a mostly empty page consolidated so the text was pulled up enough to eliminate a page. I combined paragraphs, excised words to save a line, changed the kerning of a few words to compress.
Yes, I cheated!
But I also removed huge chunks, added structure, and worked hard at eliminating unnecessary or overdone language.
I started with a manuscript that was just under three hundred pages. The revision I submitted three months later was “about half,” sneaky margins and all.
This was my first real experience with revision.
I hated it.
When I heard back from the editor again, she thanked me for the revision and said she’d been getting favorable responses to the manuscript from people in-house. Then she hinted at what was to come: “I think it will probably need one more revision (not as drastic as the first!) but it’s very close and I’m optimistic about its future.”
A year and four months later, I received my first editorial letter for the book, which had finally been bought by her publishing house. It was three solid, single-spaced pages of “lots of little and one big thing” that I needed to work on.
I came to hate revising even more. I was sick of looking at this story. And she wanted me to take more parts out? And then add at the end? Why couldn’t we just go with it as it was? Why couldn’t it just be a book already?
But I’d signed a contract and I was committed, so after a few days of grumbling, I got back to work. I sent the revision to her with a letter outlining the changes I’d made…and reasons for the ones I hadn’t. And the truth is, I was fine with the end result, but getting there had been hard. Really hard. Once your story is branded in your brain a certain way, it’s hard to erase that impression. Changing it takes time and a willingness to step back.
I wasn’t very good at that yet.
And although I could see the improvement the revision had made, I still more-than-kinda hated the process.
And we weren’t done yet. In the next rounds of back-and-forth, the manuscript would become so marked up and messy that at one point I retyped the entire thing. I was developing a style of switching between past and present tense—something you’ll find in the Sammy Keyes series—but had not mastered it yet. So in the end, the editor put her foot down about my switching-tenses style, threw Girl entirely into past tense, and explained that she was giving it over to a copy editor, who would “focus on grammar, punctuation, spelling—the more technical aspects of writing.”
So, wait. We were going to go through it again?
Yes. Again and again and again and again. By the time Girl was an actual book, revision had become my new archenemy.
It took me years to finally understand that revision is actually a writer’s best friend.
Hindsight being what it is, I look back on the ten years of rejection and see that I could have helped myself tremendously if I had caught the revision bug earlier. My MO for those ten years was to write something, read it through a couple of times for errors or clunky sentences, and call it done. So the formal revision process for Girl was quite a shock, and when it was over, I was just glad to be done with it. Enough already.
But the process began all over again with Sammy Keyes. At one point, before any of the four Sammy Keyes books I’d written were picked up, my now-official editor suggested that maybe Sammy’s story really began with the second title, Skeleton Man.
As in, dump the whole first book.
Which felt miserably like “cut it in half and I’ll look at it again.” But no fudging of margins was going to get me to the next phase this time. It felt like she was close to making an offer on Sammy, which suddenly was scary. I had to figure out a way to save Hotel Thief.
In the several years it had taken me to write those first four Sammy Keyes books—Hotel Thief, Skeleton Man, Sisters of Mercy, and Runaway Elf—I had never gone back to read any of them. And now, poring over the manuscript for Hotel Thief, I was kinda shocked. The writing was…rough. The plotting was…uneven. And Sammy wasn’t entirely…Sammy.
Oh.
But, I thought, I can fix this.
The way to become a better writer is to write. You want to become a better painter? Paint. You want to become a better ballplayer? Shoot hoops. You want to become a shreddin’ guitar player? Spend a lot of time with your instrument.
Writing is deceptive because it feels like something we already know how to do. After all, we’ve been writing since elementary school. But the craft of writing is just like everything else—the more you practice, the better you get.
So the unforeseen benefit of it taking for-stinkin’-ever to place the Sammy Keyes books was that while I was hoping for a contract on Hotel Thief, I’d kept writing, building up four books’ worth of pages. Without even realizing it, I’d become a much stronger writer. Suddenly the chance to save Hotel Thief seemed like an opportunity rather than a chore. And in addition to improving the writing, I was now able to create better continuity in the series’ evolving story line. There were things that happened in Runaway Elf that could be seeded in Hotel Thief. There was character growth from book to book that I could now set up better.
And then there was the writing. Because of my general ignorance about craft, I didn’t realize that my style of switching between past and present tense was Just Not Done. A book was either past tense or present tense. You didn’t go back and forth. But I was trying to capture the way teens talk, and what they do is switch tenses. I was at the store with my mom and we were just going down the aisle, minding our own business, when all of a sudden out of nowhere this guy jumps in front of us and says, “Let me use your phone!”
That goes from past to present and it feels really natural, but it is, or at least was, a literary no-no.
Well, I didn’t know-know that. Not until the tense (and, at times, tense) debate over Girl—an argument that I’d lost. And even when I did know-know, I didn’t want to give it up with Sammy. It had become so much her style. It made her feel real—like any one of the kids I saw every day.
In order to not lose to convention again, I needed to get better at it. Make the tense transitions smoother. Find a way to make it really flow.
With all that in mind, I dug into Hotel Thief. And, tense issue aside, it turned out to be a major overhaul.
Ugh!
But after I got past the initial feeling of being overwhelmed, after I’d done a new rough draft of the entire book and was back to the beginning and starting again, after the fear was gone and the mission was clear, I realized with a wave of disbelief that I was enjoying myself.
Say! I like green eggs and ham! I do!
And instead of wondering why the whole publishing process had to take so long, I was relieved to be able to revisit my work. Having the opportunity to go back to the beginning of Sammy’s story suddenly felt like a gift.
And what a gift. Sammy Keyes and the Hotel Thief launched the series by winning an Edgar—a very prestigious award for mystery writers—and I
’m certain it wouldn’t have if it had come out in its original form.
So now, except for the rush I get from writing an exceptionally good scene, or the relief of typing the final page of a novel, revision has become my favorite thing in the process. And I no longer wait for the end to revise. I do it as I go, in a sort of forward-looping manner. I’ll write a chapter, rewrite the chapter, put it aside. I’ll repeat that for three or four chapters, then go back to the beginning and read through all the chapters, revising as I go, adding or subtracting little things to support what’s happened in the story since the newest section was written. Then I’ll move forward, writing the next few chapters, looping back to the beginning, reading the entire thing, revising to support new developments. I do this for the entire book, then put it aside for a week or so while I bask in the glory of the last line of a new book.
By basking, I mean I clean house, pay bills, do all those things I’ve been neglecting since I came down with finish fever—something that always hits when I reach the last stretch of a book.
Then I go back to the very beginning, read the manuscript with fresh eyes and a red pencil, and have at it.
And boy, do I make a mess!
The pages get bloodied and slashed, paragraphs are lassoed and arrowed to different pages, redundancies are removed, sections are bracketed for possible axing, paragraphs are clarified, and bits (usually the funny bits) are added.
It takes weeks, that first time through. And once the changes are (deciphered and) entered, I print the pages and begin again.
Then I enter the new changes and begin again.
And do it all again.
And again.
And again.
When I think I’m done, I give the manuscript to my husband to read. Because he is an accomplished writer and I trust him to give me honest feedback, he is the only person who sees my work at this stage. After he goes through it with a red pen, catching mistakes both big and small, we discuss.
Then I have at it once more, keeping in mind his comments and suggestions. When I’m done with that, I print and read and revise again.
And again.
And again.
And every time, I find something to change, something to tighten, clarify, add, or subtract.
And then finally, after maybe twenty or thirty total cycles, I read through it and find that I’ve changed nothing—or at least very little.
If the book delves into a subject or skill that’s new to me, or if it includes a culture that is not my own, it’s at this point that I’ll ask an expert—usually someone I’ve been working with during the creation of the story—to read the manuscript.
Next I revise and polish the story with their feedback in mind, and that’s when I finally submit it to my editor, knowing full well that she will return it to me with suggestions on ways to improve it.
It took me a long time to realize that writing is what’s fun for the author, but revising is what makes what we’ve written enjoyable for the reader.
Revision is not spell-checking.
Revision is not fine-tuning punctuation.
Revision is at least as important as the initial writing. It takes effort to make words flow together, to have paragraphs segue smoothly, to construct chapters that propel the reader forward. It takes effort to make the book an authentic, integrated entity, and, as painful as it may seem at first, the only way I know to get there is through dedicated, thoughtful revision.
No pain, no gain.
So learn to love it.
The most common concern I hear from aspiring writers is that their story loses steam. They do know where they’re going, they were off to a firecrackin’ start, but…they’re just stuck.
Blocked.
And kinda depressed about it.
“Do you ever get writer’s block?” they ask.
I used to joke, “I don’t have time for writer’s block!” Not with a full-time job and little kids and a household to run. But looking deeper, I think what made me not feel blocked was the fact that I didn’t have a lot of time to sit down and write. I had way more time away from the blank page than with it, but what was key to my not becoming blocked was that I used this time to think about what I should write when I had a chance to get back to it.
Probably the single most valuable tip I can give you about writing is this: When you’re not at the keyboard, train yourself to think about your story, and only your story. This takes some corralling of your thoughts—and they will try to escape to sweeter pastures—but once you harness your thoughts and train them to stay on your story, you will be amazed by how much writing you can accomplish away from your desk.
You will have to give up some things to do this. TV, podcasts, other books…anything with a plot that your brain is attracted to. Because your creative mind will try to puzzle out what happens next on your favorite shows. It will be hijacked by fascinating podcasts. It is satisfied to read someone else’s well-crafted story. Our brains like to figure things out, so don’t give yours any options. Give it only your story, your plot, your problem to work on.
This is a silent process, and it’s one that can be easily interrupted, so you have to keep forcing your thoughts back to your story, your plot, your problem.
When I’m working on a book and have a long road trip to take, I don’t listen to music or audiobooks.
I force my brain to work on my story.
Just thinking about the characters, their relationships, their situation will create little scenes in your mind. Likely, no brilliant plot development will spring up right away, but don’t be discouraged. Keep adding new ingredients, new ideas. Sprinkle in “what-ifs.” It’s okay to go a little wild.
Say your story needs something, so you imagine in a dog. You see your main character now owning a dog and all that entails (no pun intended). But that seems a little generic, so you let go of the harness on your thoughts and imagine instead that the pet is a snake. A large snake that has free rein in the house. No, wait. Beyond the house. It accompanies your main character on shopping expeditions…it’s that kind of snake.
Which means your character is now that kind of person.
And what if your character gets tangled up in a jewelry heist (you can figure out the details of that later) and the snake…the snake somehow manages to swallow a priceless Fabergé egg—not because the snake’s a thief, but because it’s hungry. And when your character escapes the melee (with the pet snake, of course), they unwittingly make off with an invaluable treasure.
Okay. That’s how you drive from Salinas to San Jose without realizing it.
You get lost in the heist.
You get lost in seeing the scene.
Now, you may wind up tossing the scene out the window, but you’ll begin a new one or segue to an exploration of some, uh, gem from the tossed scene. And if you stay in your story long enough, eventually (and like magic) there’ll be a ding, and a fully baked, absolutely delicious idea will pop out of your mental oven.
Doing this during a task that doesn’t require much thought works best. It should be one that distracts part of your brain enough to allow the creative part of it to roam. Like folding the laundry, or washing the dishes, or scrubbing, well, anything. I can get so much “writing” done in an afternoon of window washing, it’s amazing. And a job that generates white noise adds a layer of concentration, which is why driving (in little or no traffic) works. The hum of road noise is enough to create a cone of concentration. Other things that work really well are vacuuming, or mowing grass, or the classic (but ecologically wasteful) taking of a long shower.
When I’m writing a book, I live that book in my mind. When I’m jogging, when I’m driving, when I’m chore-ing, when I’m flying, when I’m falling asleep at night…I tune my brain in to my story.
You give up a lot to do this, but it works, and you can
always binge-watch/listen/read after your book is written.
Well, unless you’re like me, and you’re already thinking about the next one.
No matter what your story is about, research is likely to play a role in the writing of it, and real research requires more than looking things up in books or on the internet. You need to get physical.
I actually love the research part of writing a book. I didn’t used to. It used to feel like an impediment to getting pages typed. And I found it difficult to ask strangers to help me figure things out.
It’s tempting to fake it or fudge it or try some end run around it, but don’t. Maybe a lot of readers won’t notice, but for those who do, the book will be ruined. And you, as the author, will have let them down.
Let’s say there’s a book featuring a rock band of rookie musicians. Let’s say the author has the entire band and their gear traveling to a gig in a Volkswagen van. Let’s say the band arrives at the venue and the singer plugs her microphone into the power strip.
Most people would go along with that scenario, but anyone who has actually been in a rock band knows that the band and their gear cannot fit in a VW van. They will also know that plugging a microphone into a power strip is impossible. Not just wrong, but physically impossible. It doesn’t matter how well the character development is done. If the facts are wrong, the knowledgeable reader’s suspension of disbelief is not just interrupted, it’s shattered.
And that is so unnecessary.
So take the time to get the details right.
Ask.
And if your book involves another culture, ask people from that culture to read it and give you feedback. No matter how much research you do, nothing will take the place of feedback from people of that culture. There is a thread in my novel Wild Bird that involves a Southern Paiute storyteller. I knew that including it at all was a risk, but Native American storytelling and teachings are an integral part of wilderness therapy programs like the one where Wild Bird is set, so to authentically represent the camp, they needed to be part of the story.
Hope in the Mail Page 9
