Susan Mary Malone's Blog: Happiness is a Story, page 33

BOOK-WRITING GOALS

“How much should I write per day?”



Writers ask me this literally all the time. Especially when trying to find their sea legs, novel writers worry whether they’re writing enough. Often enough. Volume enough. Wanting to keep up with the Kings and the Pattersons. J

“Should I set an hour/time or a word-count as my goal?”

Depends!

When it comes down to the crux, fiction writing is a very personal endeavor. And all serious scribes do set some sort of production goals. The point is to find what works for you. And, to do so within the context of producing. In other words, it matters not how you get from point A to point Z, but only that you get to Z!

I know great book authors whose goal is to work for an hour a day. Period. The point is, for that hour they sit their butts in front of the computer. Every day. Even if each word typed is excruciatingly done, they still work. After all, the muse can be fickle, and some days she refuses to play. Not your concern if you’re committed (you always know she comes back!). And some days she roars with creativity, and three hours fly by without you knowing it.

Many others set word-count goals. And no “right” number exists for that. When I’m writing fiction, I set a goal of 1,000 words per day. Again, sometimes getting 250 down proves difficult. Conversely, some days’ work produces 3,000 brilliant one (at least until I look at them the next day!). But usually that 1,000 words ends up being my average. It works for me.

If all this seems rather arbitrary, it is. Because a goal is just a goal—a standard to help guide you. To keep you honest. To keep you writing. It matters not how many actual words/scenes/chapters/pages you produce a day, nor how many hours you spend doing it. It only matters that you write. Regularly.

Especially when working on book-length fiction or nonfiction, when The End lives somewhere in the elusive and distant future, getting sidetracked is quite easy. And especially easy when you find yourself slogging through those dreaded sagging middles (hyperlink). Having a set daily writing goal kicks you in the butt to sit at the computer, whether you feel an ounce of creativity or not. Again, the muse will return at some point. And oddly, often in those very times of arid writing, you find yourself turning down a really right road you otherwise would have been racing too fast to see.

But even if what you write that day is schlock, you still wrote. The beauty of writing is that no other person on the face of this earth will see your first draft, and everything is up to debate whether it stays or goes. All that will be hashed out anyway in the developmental edit. So who cares if you write tripe in one session? You can always ax it the next day, or down the line.

Because in the end, all that matters is that you wrote.

BESTSELLING BOOKS TO READ (OR NOT!)

A piece of advice writers often hear (and regularly from me!) is that to write effectively, you must read. And read a lot. This is simply mandatory. You learn from reading—not just information, but how other authors accomplish the things you’re striving for. Vocabulary expands. Your own voice (which you’re honing every day at your writing table, right?) gets challenged by other great voices. You begin to see story structure and scenes and how characters go through the arc of the storyline. Among a gazillion other things.

I’m often amazed at how very little wanna-be fiction writers actually read. Many ‘fess this up when I ask (as it truly shows), with a litany of excuses as to why they don’t read. My favorite of course being, “I watch a lot of movies and TV.” With all the schlock out there in both of those, that excuse is always starkly apparent in their prose. If you want to truly tank your writing, watch lots of television.

And yes, there’s a ton of schlock out there in the publishing world as well. In fact, that’s the preponderance of self-published work, and that by Traditional houses too. The old adage that publishing is geared to an eighth-grade level has actually changed. Now, it’s geared to the sixth-grade level. And if you’re going to be a successful fiction author, no matter in what genre you write, you have to be smarter than a fifth-grader. Which means, you have to read on a much higher level than what book publishing is geared to.

And that means—forget the Bestseller list. Yes, it’s helpful to know what’s there, and to read some of it so you’ll know what’s selling well (but be careful—this can be depressing! That such terrible books sit atop the Bestseller list could dismay a Buddhist monk). But that’s pretty much as far as those books will get you.

I loved this recent article by Shane Parrish in The Week, with even a different take on this. The gist of it is that if you just read the Bestseller list, you’ll think like everyone else. And thinking like everyone else will suffocate your creativity. I couldn’t possibly agree more! These generic, sixth-grade-level, god-awful prose, flat characters, but usually page-turning-plot books bore me to tears. And a bored mind is not a creative one.

Some small presses still strive to put out great fiction. They still do this for the very best of reasons—the love of the written word. Algonquin of course comes to mind, although as they get bigger and bigger . . . University presses still put out quality books, although with a very limited list. One of my very favorites is GrayWolf Press, and I’ve read so many great works from them. They still publish for the love of the word, and it shows in the quality here.

There are others of course—so go find them! Challenge yourself. Enjoy, but learn as you go. Expand those creative horizons. Dedicate yourself to simply writing the very best books you can. Give yourself something to shoot for. And admire those who have reached the goal you’re aspiring to.

THE ERROR ON 99

This week we’re blessed to have a guest post by hilarious Southern author Rhett Devane, whose new novel, The Suicide Supper Club, has just hit the shelves to great reviews! Thanks, Rhett!

I have learned many lessons from my characters and my writing. Each book brings a basketful of thumps on the head. Suicide Supper Club provided enough for two authors.



Like my fellow writers, I understand one fundamental truth: words and characters are unruly. I start each novel or short story with a spark of inspiration, perhaps a rough plot outline. I settle down with the laptop, expecting to corral a raging herd of ideas, scenes, and dialog into 90,000 brilliant, perfect words.

Then the muses seize the reins and shove aside my feeble attempts at control. Should I try to hem them in, force them in directions they don’t prefer, they will shut down my literary flow like Beethoven blared at a redneck round-up.

During final editing and revisions, I have meager input. My latest Southern fiction novel, Suicide Supper Club, gifted more than a handful of the muses’ “teachable moments.”

Weeks before the book went to print, I zeroed in on the final, marketable product. A line editor, three beta-readers, and my critique group members helped to flush out the typos. For sure, the spelling and grammar computer-creatures miss a lot. If it’s truly a word, it is okey dokey with them. Hey, I meant to write shut and not slut—it’s only one small letter’s difference. Why quibble?

Yet no matter how many times I cull a manuscript, typos lurk. I know it. I hate it.

Final proof. I checked back one last time to make sure all of my changes stuck. I always suspect the corrections switch to their former state of imperfection the moment I close the file, a condition I label writer-noia.

Then, on page 99, that word pops out at me. It has snugged itself next to a correction. All of the trained eyes have missed it. Even the word itself is eerie: a slang term meaning “let it go!”

At first, I groused about having to redo the file. I couldn’t leave an obvious error in place. Or could I?

I decided, YES!

The lesson: if I could not let it pass, I had missed the point. Missed life lessons have a way of repeating themselves until the thick human ego catches the subtle drift.

To note, I corrected the Error on 99 in the Kindle version. Had to. I’m too much a stickler. But I did leave it glaring for the world in the print—to me, more permanent—edition.

At the same time—why let things ever be simple?—I was plowing through a difficult life transition. Things beyond my control had shifted my settled world. I struggled to find solid footing. Like the characters in Suicide Supper Club, I forgot I had options.

The Error on 99 appeared at the right moment, the right time. It even fit into the underlying theme of Suicide Supper Club.

Not everything can be controlled. Most things can’t. And left to their own, situations will work out exactly as they should. If I can get out of my own way.

That lesson, I understood. Thanks to the Error on 99.

News Flash: Further update on my love affair with the Error on 99

I loved the lesson from the Error on 99 so much, I made it a marketing catchphrase. Designed a T-shirt to wear at the book launch (no kidding). Talked on a public radio show interview about the Error on 99. It took on bloated proportions. I envisioned keychains, bumper stickers, perhaps another book. The logo I designed featured Error on 99 in bold letters, surrounded with a beacon-red heart. When I embrace a mistake, I hug it until it pops.

The next week, I turned to page 99 and read the entire section where the Error on 99 lived. Guess what? I had misread the sentence the first time. The perceived error really wasn’t one after all. Had I stepped in, taken control, and changed it, the book would’ve gone to print (and to the infamous Library of Congress) with a true error on 99.

The Kindle version—where my OCD-self switched the word—I easily corrected and reloaded. Even that wouldn’t have been necessary had I let it go.

Want to know the word? Suspense is killing you.

The word is slide.

STRUCTURE AND THE NOVEL: THE END 3 Steps to Success

So you’ve gotten through the climax of your book. In some manner, the earth moved! Internally, externally, all threads led into one cataclysm and the crux of the matter blew smooth up. Whew! You’re done, right?



Not quite. Now we need one final scene of denouement and resolution. You know, when just as in every scene, the smoke dissipates and we’re left with a clear view of what the heck happened, and what do we do with the pieces remaining.

This is straightforward enough. Either our hero was successful—won the day, the girl, the prize, etc.—or he wasn’t (also known as a Tragedy, which can be for either, actually. For example, he won the day but died doing so, a la Gladiator, etc.). Or he was partly successfully, and will live to fight another day (plot for book 2, and how most trilogies go). Whichever result, he (and the reader) can now see exactly what was won, lost, and what the road ahead looks like. And if you’re successful as the author, both your hero and your readers are satisfied. At least for today.

I see three recurring issues with this crucial part, so let’s just talk about them.

1). This does not mean that every single thread was tied up neatly. In fact, doesn’t that drive you a bit nuts as a reader? When the ribbon so perfectly fits the box that no wiggle room exists anywhere (when I receive such gifts my first thought is always—God save me—this person needs more to do J). Everything is just a bit too neat and tidy.

While your main story question does, indeed, need resolution (one way or another), many of the subplots and themes can quite successfully still be left hanging. This gives the reader the chance to wonder about the characters long after finishing the book. Which, as the author, is one of your goals! You want your readers wondering about those folks—what happens to them and those they love. And not just if you plan a sequel, but in general, as a curious reader will wait for your next one with great anticipation.

2). I often see this section rushed. And, it just can’t be, or you’ll leave your reader puzzled, and not knowing why. Take the time to let all that dust settle, and your hero look out on his new and expanded world. As with everything, don’t tell your reader what she was supposed to learn here, but rather, evoke this from the perception of the hero. Leave your reader with a feeling. The more powerful, the better. An Epilogue works great here!

3). But by far what I see most is this section belabored. I’ve seen manuscripts where the climax occurred on page 300, and the book go on for another 50 pages. You just don’t get that much time or space

This is one scene. ONE. And that’s it. Rule of thumb: No more than 10 or so pages, and even that’s the end of the spectrum. The entire point of this is to tie the main theme together with the character’s perception of events. And that’s it.

It goes without saying that this is the last thing you leave with your reader, so make it count!

STRUCTURE AND THE NOVEL: THE CLIMAX

Loved this from Literary Agent Lucienne Diver’s (The Knight Agency) recent FB post: You know when you hit that point in writing your novel where you just want to say, “And then more stuff happens, the end”?



Surging into the climax, the Supreme Ordeal, is not the time to feel that way. LOL. Rather, the energy you’ve built up while writing the bridge to this point should have your adrenaline surging like a mad rush over Niagara Falls. Because that’s what the climax of a novel is—plunging your reader over a thousand-mile-high waterfall.

It doesn’t matter in what genre you’re writing, whether Fantasy or Horror, Romance or Literary, Mainstream or Christian. This is the crux of your novel, where everything comes together, although not in a tied-up sort of way—that’s for the next section, denouement and resolution. But where all of the action and discovery, all of the angst and trials and tribulations and self-realization and, well, everything, merges into one big giant fat boom.

That doesn’t necessarily mean the boom is actually a bomb going off, though such may happen. It can be running the final race, attacking the enemy, surging over the falls in a hand-made boat, staring that bottle of bourbon smack in the eye and pouring it out. It’s the culmination of everything you’ve led your reader up to for seventy-plus-thousand words. It’s the raison d’etre for why said reader has followed your folks all this time.

And, as with all things fiction, it’s both internal and external. The outer blowing-up-of-things mirroring the inner fight. But this does not mean analysis. By now, your reader knows well the Achilles’ Heel of your Protagonist, what the villain is after, and what happens if said Protagonist doesn’t save the day. What we don’t need here is any sort of pausing in the action to wax philosophical about how we got to this point, what it all means in the cosmic scheme of things, and the hero’s place in it. Remember, when the tiger is racing to pounce, we don’t stop and think of the history of tigers, or what sort of gun we’re shooting him with. Rather, we shoulder the gun, aim, and shoot. If successful, we have time for all that analysis later. No, right now what we need is for things to blow smooth up.

Even in Literary fiction, we can have a literal blow up. In my latest novel, I Just Came Here to Dance, we meet with a fiery climax. Who knew. Conversely, even in an action-oriented Mystery, such as Kevin Don Porter’s Missing, the climax can rather be scary-cold, that feeling in silence of oh-my-god, we’re all gonna die!

The main thing is this climax must fit the book you’re writing. All that painstaking time of carefully crafting your characters, plot, plot points, etc.; having the fortitude to push though that point of “and then more stuff happens, the end;” setting your hero up with his most supreme ordeal—the thing that requires all that he’s learned so far—requires a huge emotional happening.

And one where the reader says in the end, Wow.

THE NOVEL WRITING LOVE AFFAIR 4 QUESTIONS BEFORE YOU COMMIT

There you are, motoring through life, minding your own business when Wham! In the words of George Strait, “There she comes a walking, talking true love . . .” Your world goes topsy-turvy, out of control, spiraling into the Universe.



Your heart races, you lose weight (we always say a love affair is good for ten pounds lost), you can’t think (or act) straight. You’re obsessed with the new object of your affections. Everything else pales compared to this shiny sparkling thing.

Yep, a new love affair causes these reactions. And if you’re a novelist, that new affection is often for the characters banging on the door of your head, demanding your full attention.

And why wouldn’t they? They’re perfect, no? You’ve never met a man so worthy, a woman with such a heart of gold, folks who are funny and witty, strong and kind, adept and . . . Well, there’s just nothing wrong with them. That absolutely ideal person has just walked into your life, saying, as in the next line of the song, “I’ve been lookin’ for you, love.” A match made in heaven.

For a time, that rush sustains you. Who needs food? Sleep? No criticism allowed—even from your very best friends (or the quiet one in your head). They just don’t know him, or this story, like you do!

Uh huh. We’ve all walked down this road—falling in love. And a funny thing happens, a few months in. Hm, was that a catty remark about, well, about just about anything? Wait a minute, did he just do that? And did his best friend just share his misguided, ignorant thoughts about your sister?

Characters you’ve created start to seem as if made of straw—nice when facing them, full of stuffing once you look from the side. The fairytale of new romance begins to leak from holes in the structure, implausible paths, an inability to fit what you fell for in the first place with the reality in front of you.

And it’s about this time that folks break off that love affair—whether with an actual person, or the novel they’re creating. The thrill is gone. And what’s left is just plain hard work.

Which any therapist in the world will tell you, that’s what a relationship is about. And any editor will explain the same thing. This juncture is what separates the girls from the women, the heroes from the goats.

Of course, first you have to sort through, and decide a few things:

1. When the love dust settles and the light of day shines in, what do you actually have here? Charles Manson or the Buddha himself? Or something more humanly in between? Who is this hero, and is there enough substance for him to carry you through your story? Or is it time to kick him to the curb and try again?

2. What is your story? Can you identify it, clearly, concisely, amidst all the wine and chocolates (i.e., fluff)? Or are you ping-ponging from Africa to Brazil, cocktail party to bedroom, adrift in a sea of meaningless stuff?

3. Within this context, can you identify enough plot points (twists and turns, propelling the story into different directions) to sustain an entire novel? Or is this particular one so dang boring, the sagging middles of only TV nights stretch before you . . .

4. When you ‘think from the end,’ do you see a satisfying conclusion? Or do visions of him running off with a flamenco dancer at age seventy dance in your head? I.e., will the ending be the crowning glory on a story of worth and substance, or cotton candy that readers will forget the instant they turn the last page?

If you can answer yes to the first questions in the points above, you have enough to dive in, do the dirty and hard work, and commit for the journey. And once you do, a funny thing happens: You fall in love all over again . . .

GOOD PROBLEMS

To start off the new year, we have a great new guest post by author Kevin Don Porter! Wonderful words for any author to live by!



I used to read writers’ blogs that discussed issues like: How to handle your unresponsive agent, or what to ask before signing a book contract. Or how to juggle a busy book tour while writing under a deadline, and I would think: I wish I had those problems. I wish that I was exhausted from a 10-city book tour and writing into the wee hours just to stay on schedule. I wish that I had those problems.

Good problems.

The kind that indicate you’ve reached a certain level of success. That you’re in demand.

While I still don’t have an agent, or a 10-city book tour for that matter, I am somewhat on the other end of that wish—having had my first novel, Missing, published through a traditional publisher. So now I guess I have my own set of “good problems.”

How will I follow-up the first book? Will it sell well enough to justify the publisher’s investment in a second? How do I navigate social media to continue to connect with readers and, at the same time, promote my novel without becoming a nuisance? How do I balance promotion with work on the next project?

These “good problems” became my new normal. My new status quo.

But a funny thing can happen if you let it. You begin to look around at other writers and their accomplishments and suddenly your “good problems” are no longer good enough. Their situations seem more ideal. More like where you want to be. Are supposed to be.

But while it’s great to have role models and other writers whom we aspire to be like, comparing your writing journey to those of other authors can become a slippery slope. One that can quickly change your personal journey from one of joy, appreciation, serendipity, and one-day-at-a-time spontaneous fun, to a miserable path of undue pressure and unrealistic expectations.

I don’t know about you, but—to put it plainly— I ain’t got time for that.

Life and the moments and chances we’re given are just too precious to spend peering over someone else’s shoulder, or looking over our own. And there’s no time to be preoccupied with someone else’s moves, saying to yourself, “Big Six Author does it like this, maybe I should too,” or “Big Six Author doesn’t do this, maybe I shouldn’t either.”

Newsflash: Your voice, your style, your way of being and doing is not meant to be some cheap imitation, but authentically and uniquely YOUR OWN.

So I learned to change my perspective. No, I haven’t lowered my expectations or my goals—not by a long shot. In fact I’m striving even harder. But I learned that my journey is specifically mine. Simply because my path may not take the route through Big Six publishers, TV interviews, and “Best Books” lists (right now) does not mean that I am off course.

It means that I am on MY course.

I am a writer and I’m in this for the long haul.

Now that’s not to say that I haven’t been successful—book club and reader reviews of Missing have been wonderful, and my awesome publisher just released book one of my new e-book suspense series OVER THE EDGE. I couldn’t be more thrilled.

What it does mean is that I define what success looks like to me.

And once you do that, you can settle into your writing journey with joy and relish every bump, twist, turn, high, low, and thrill crafted specifically just for YOU. You can have fun and enjoy the ride.

You only get to have a debut novel ONCE. You only get your very first 5-star review ONCE. So appreciate it and the journey that got you there, and the journey that lies ahead.

And wherever you are on your list of “good problems,” the very fact that you have problems of any kind means that you’re still in the game.

Kevin Don Porter is a CBS Local contributor and the author of OVER THE EDGE and MISSING—two mysteries available on Amazon.com. Visit his website at www.kevindonporter.com. Friend him on Facebook and Goodreads, and follow him on Twitter: @kevindonporter.

STRUCTURE AND THE NOVEL: Building to the Finish

Okay, so you’ve set up your novel well, established conflicts and turning points and twists. You’ve created allies and villains and tests. You’ve successfully navigated through the first two acts, avoiding those dreaded sagging middles . If written correctly, we’ve just come through the Protagonist’s major stumbling block—gone into that inmost cave of fear, mastered it, and emerged pretty much intact on the other side. The reward stage (a much-needed breather) is over. New insights and strengths have been gleaned that equip her to fight the supreme battle. And now, we build to the end.



So, how do you get there?

This leads us into the final act, and we still have some major steps to get through. Three in fact. For now, let’s focus on the bridge leading to the climax.

This is our turn for home—the link between what she learned and the final conflict. The character may straddle the threshold of the two worlds, but with a determined commitment to finish. The energy to do so surges up. This can come from inside (internal), or outside (external). Sometimes a counter attack comes from the villain at this point, which propels the story to its conclusion. In an action/adventure film, a major chase scene might occur

The main point here is energy. Now we pump up the action. Now we run faster, jump higher, ramp up the fight. Now we make that walk with courage toward the stage ahead. Whether literally or metaphorically doesn’t matter. Our prose itself becomes more staccato in places. The time for analysis has ended (no more waxing philosophically or pining for that lost love). We march toward the final battle with confidence, not lacking in fear, perhaps, but with the courage to face that fear, whether that be battling the giant, rescuing the child, building the final and hardest stretch of bridge, or a once-stuttering king stepping onstage to face the microphone.

Here is not the time to learn of betrayal—that happened back in Act Two—before our hero descended into himself to face his fears. Rather, here his allies staunchly have his back, and although some of those may get sacrificed in the final conflict to come, deception is long over.

We know the risks now, without the author telling us about them. Everybody knows the stakes—heroes, villains, readers.

This section must move. In the entire novel, no part surges ahead more quickly. You, as the writer, literally have only a small piece, word-count wise, to get you to the defining conflict, the climax, of your novel. That doesn’t mean you gloss over or rush through it, but just that you keep pumping up the pace. Here, the reader has been rafting the river and (if the author is really good!) the current has picked up leading to the falls before said reader knows it. By the time he does, long gone is the option to jump out of the boat and swim to shore to avoid tumbling headlong over the cliff. I.e., if your reader can put down the book here (even though it’s 2 AM and he has to work in the morning!), you have failed. At this point, you have your reader on the edge of his seat, dying to know what looms ahead.

This leads us into the supreme ordeal, which we’ll talk about next time!

So, how do you surge toward the finish?

SHOULD YOUR BOOK EDITOR BE AN AUTHOR?

Do book editors have to be authors themselves to successfully edit?



It depends upon what sort of editing we’re talking about. For copyeditors and proofers, no, although it often helps with idioms and the like. A firm grasp on grammar, syntax, spelling, of course is a must, but having written successfully isn’t mandatory.

However, every great developmental editor I know also writes, and writes well. I’m not talking just blogs and articles, although those prove helpful too. But these book editors also write fiction and/or nonfiction full-length works. And, have been published (although many use pseudonyms), often and well.

Why? On first blush, it wouldn’t seem necessary for someone editing your book to be an author, as you’re coming to that person to work with your manuscript, not her own. In fact, writers express concerns to me almost daily that they fear an editor “changing the voice,” or, “altering the intent” of their books. Boy, I’d be concerned about that too! I hear horror stories of that happening every single day.

A great editor, however, has firm boundaries between her own work and that of an editorial client. A great editor’s job is to help the writer hone his skills, help make the book the best it can be, and otherwise stay the heck out of the way!

And that goes back to an editor having written successfully herself. She knows the pitfalls of all aspects of great fiction—having not only faced those herself, but also mastered them, or publishing success wouldn’t have happened. Not merely with stylistic elements, but also dealing with the true blood and guts of a novel—characterization issues and plotting problems and flow and voice and tone and well, we could go on and on.

The point of great editing is not just to identify the problems. Astute readers can do that—hence the rage these days of “Beta” readers. And those can be helpful, but only to a point, and that point is far from getting you to a publishable manuscript.

The point of great editing is helping you figure out how to fix the problems. Giving suggestions and examples, many ways of getting you from “In the beginning,” to “amen.” And all the while maintaining the pristine, unique virtues of your voice and intent. Great authors have fallen into the same black holes new writers face, and mastered those, found ways to climb out (and better yet—not to fall in again!) or they wouldn’t have been published in the first place.

And doing so is tricky. That’s also why even great authors aren’t always great editors. Those firm boundaries must be in place, as well as a gift, if you will, for finding ways to help other writers claw out of those holes, and make their books publishable.

This requires a unique skill set, part experience, and part simply a knack. And finally, a love of the word and books and a deep desire to help make others’ works wonderful as well as their own . . . Tough shoes to fill indeed!

I often liken the author/agent relationship to a marriage. And the developmental editor’s role as that of marriage counselor. So, choose wisely. That person will have a huge impact on your writing career, and we want that to be positive!

THE CRAFT OF WRITING

I’m not a big proponent of books on writing. I know, I know, lots of folks swear by them. From the old Strunk & White to Julie Cameron’s inspirational works and everything in between, writers plow through countless tomes to help them pen that next bestseller. And I’m not saying some study therein isn’t helpful. It surely can be, and there are a couple I recommend, but only in very specific instances. More to the point, however, is that you can’t learn to write well just by studying the process. Writing is a doing endeavor.



Countless writers query me, wanting to employ my services, who haven’t written much. Perhaps a few chapters, with an idea of where the rest of the book is going. Perhaps even a first draft. Often this is their initial stab at fiction, and before they’ve even contacted me, they have already signed with an Indy house, have the cover and pub date. Possibly even a publicist. Oy!

That somewhat boggles my mind. In fact, I won’t work with the latter at all. Serious writers are those willing to put in the blood, sweat, and tears to learn this very exacting craft. And that doesn’t mean publishing a first effort in its infancy. In the days of yore, those initial efforts routinely ended up in a drawer somewhere, and almost always deservedly so. I’m always fond of quoting the Hemingway story where he lost his first three manuscripts, leaving them on a train. Devastating at the time, but later he said that was the best thing that ever happened to his craft.

As a developmental editor, I can and do work with writers at very early stages, but not often. I counsel them to do their own legwork first, and that means, as the mantra goes, to write and write and write some more. Then, study others’ works, which means, of course, read and read and read some more. Of times, new writers do read, although only in the genre they’re pursuing. But the point is to read widely, including the classics, both pre-twentieth century and the more modern ones. I do laugh at how often my writers tell me later that I’ve ruined reading for them, as they’re constantly picking through substantive mistakes in others’ work. But I assure them that’s temporary—that while they’ll always find ways to make books better, they’ll eventually truly and so-gratefully appreciate great works. And they do.

When a writer has done the above, working with a gifted book editor proves so much more effective. That sounds quite obvious, but the reason has more to do with just skill level. The writer himself is then in a place much more conducive to learning, with a broader foundation upon which to build his craft and his book. Getting there just takes time and effort. It takes rolling up your sleeves, doing the hard work, mastering some patience, and also allowing your skin to thicken a bit in order to absorb criticism and learn from it rather than bristling and blaming the messenger.

And it speaks to something deeper and more numinous as well. For it’s those who stick it out through all of the above who indeed, have a wondrous love of this craft we call writing. And it’s from those book authors that brilliance comes, and we all remember why we do this in the first place, which in the end is the love of the word and the reverence for great writing. The ability to take the reader’s breath away in a few lines, and leave her longing for more.

Which is, of course, not a taught thing in the end. Yep, the pieces can be learned in many ways, but the putting together of magic emerges from that quiet, well-lighted room . . .