For the last week I’ve been doing the final editing on a novel, then yesterday I sent it off to my agent.
And this morning when I settled in front of my computer my mind was as blank as the stupid white screen I was staring at.
The book is done. It lives elsewhere now. So what’s next?
Usually when I sit down to write these few paragraphs, it’s because I have a concern on my mind, a random thought to share, or something to rant about. Well, I do have a rant in me, which is that here in our cul-de-sac several of my neighbors who are ordinarily sane have put Trump signs in their yards; and signs aren’t allowed in here and they all know it. Anarchy. It’s an in-your-face move. Defensive aggression. So bound by hubris are they that they’re unable to admit to their mistake, so they doggedly stick to their path. I have to let it go. I can’t fix everybody; though I do wish I could hide in a comfortable quiet closet for the next couple of months.
By the time I’ve finished a book, I’ve read it through at least a hundred times. I’ve run spelling and grammar checks and I’ve analyzed each sentence, always asking—is there a better word? A more amusing slant? Have I achieved exactly the nuance I’m looking for? I’m obsessively thorough in my editing—and I hate that if I were to run through the whole thing again, I’d find a few errors—an open quotation, a dropped letter, a misusage or a misspelling. How is it that spell check misses a misspelled word? I don’t know, but it happens.
This book was longer than my usual—a hundred and fourteen thousand words. Normally I top off at around eighty-three thousand. The reason for the length is that the narrative is in third person, which allows for more characters, which, in turn, means more perspectives, and therefore, more words. And the perspectives are all intricate and intriguing—adults mired in indecision or rage or fear, children of all ages, suspended, waiting for their adults to take action.
From the first sentence to the last, it took nine months, writing two hours a day. Do I ever skip a day? No, I do not. It’s the German in me. And during this gestation I was unable to put the characters away—their voices were in my head the whole time. It’s like this with every book. No wonder I forget what I’m saying in the middle of a sentence. No wonder I lose my keys and get lost driving through town.
I’m a fast typist and the work goes quickly—about two weeks per chapter. I do a lot of back-and-forthing in the manuscript, checking to see which character has what information and verifying names and descriptions. Constancy is paramount and it can be tricky. For instance, there’s a minor character named Kate, mentioned maybe fifteen times, and a few of those times I called her Kay—an easy mistake to make, an easy mistake to fix. But if I hadn’t been vigilant, it could’ve slipped by.
David has suggested many times that rather than scrolling around trying to verify a name or description, I should make notes listing the characters’ separate traits and plot lines. Yeah, referring to a directory of sorts would be a more organized way to go about things. He can do it that way when he writes his own damn book.
The part of writing that I enjoy most and where I’ve been told I excel is dialogue. Here’s a snippet from the first chapter:
“A divorce isn’t the same as dying.” Louisa, in a whiny voice. “It’s inappropriate to distribute your possessions to your heirs just because you’re splitting up.”
“I’m sorry.” A disappointing absence of interest. Cindy doesn’t seem to grasp the significance.
“Forty-two years they were married. They put us through hell as kids, with their screaming and their silences and their separations. Why now, why not then?”
“How upsetting for you.”
Said sarcastically. The lack of concern isn’t just an intimation, it’s an insult. This is a bizarrely inequitable exchange. When something goes awry in Cindy’s life, Louisa’s right there churning out indignation on her behalf. Yet now, during her difficult time, all her friend offers is a single insincere platitude.
“What’s going on with you?” Louisa asks, rightfully irritated.
“You’re forty years old.” Contemptuously. “It’s not like your life will be ruined if your parents aren’t together anymore. And, oh boo-hoo, you’re getting Emrick Mansion out of the deal.”
Oh. This about the house.
Pretty good, right? And do you see how useful the dialogue is? It moves the story along, reveals the characters’ personalities, and, in this instance, introduces the heart of the story, Emrick Mansion.
So. As I said, that’s done. And now I think I’ll follow the lead of my fellow Texans and head up to Colorado for a while. The cooler weather and majestic views will likely guide me to another story that needs to be written.
Good-bye Louisa and Henshaw, Callie and Don, Mason and Stacy and Sloan! I’ll miss you.
