Tosca Lee's Blog - Posts Tagged "writing"
Blood, Guts and Peanuts: What It's Like Writing With Ted Dekker
People ask me often what it's like writing with Ted. "Is he weird?" they say. "Does he really paint his nails/eat small children/write from a dungeon?"
Of course he's weird. As weird as anyone else who grew up with cannibals. As strange as your average seven million bookselling novelist who lives mostly on peanuts and barbeque in Texas and, you know, speaks an obscure language known only to remote tribes in Papua New Guinea.
Or as weird as you and me.
And yet, the questions persist. "He scares me," author friends confess in low tones.
He scares me, too. Because, you know, it's just not healthy to eat that many peanuts.
***
Snippets of the work day, below. It’s up to you in most cases to guess who’s saying what.
“So, I accidentally killed ___ in this scene.”
“WHAT? That’s not on the outline.”
“Dude. It was his time.”
“But—”
“You gotta let him go, man. Let him go.”
On iChat:
“What’ve you got for lunch?”
“Um, sandwich (holds it up).”
“Oh man. That is way better than my V8/Greenfood shake/Cheetohs.”
“You seriously live on that?”
“So far.”
“Look. This is what I think we need to do.”
“I don’t like it.”
“What? Why not? It’s brilliant.”
“Because.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t.”
“Okay, this is what needs to happen now.”
“I don’t want to do that.”
“But it’d be cool.”
“Okay.”
“What?”
“I said let’s do it.”
“You’re supposed to defend your position.”
***
Some days, Ted's wife, LeeAnn, comes up to talk to her husband. She leans in to say hello, waving at the screen. She's always gorgeous, put together and made up.
Without fail, I’m wearing the same t-shirt I wore yesterday. And, truth by told, the day before. Except that I had one of my ever-present polar fleece tops on, so no one knew it. At least no one can smell me.
***
Ted: “Check out the UK version of Forbidden. Look! It’s so cute!”
Me: “You said ‘cute.’”
“They have to kiss here.”
“Is this a kissing book? Can we skip that part?”
“They have to kiss.”
“I hate it when they kiss.”
“You write it.”
“I think ___ should happen here.”
“No.”
“Yes. Or I’m going to say you pick your nose in my status update.”
“You’re being difficult.”
“No I’m not.”
“You are.”
“No I’m not.”
“I’m calling your wife.”
“Okay. Okay, okay.”
Ted: “Every time I talk to you you’re eating.”
“I have to go. I have a workout.”
“Me, too.”
“I don’t want to. It hurts.”
“Let’s call in sick.”
“Why’d you change that? It was great!”
(Silence.)
“Hello?”
“We’ve been talking about TV shows for 45 minutes.”
“Yeah. We need to work.”
“Yeah, let’s work.”
“Did you see The Walking Dead?”
“That last scene you did was really cool.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Except that you kind of went on and on.”
“What?”
“And then you used a semi-colon.”
“So?”
“And you have this habit of—”
“I thought you said it was cool?!”
“You’re eating peanuts again.”
“No I’m not.”
“I can hear you crunching.”
“That’s not crunching.”
“Crunching!”
“I always make that sound.”
“Because you’re eating peanuts.”
“It’s hard work making stuff up.”
“I’ve written 30 books. Don’t talk to me.”
“You done with that scene yet?”
“No.”
“You done yet?”
“No.”
“You done yet?”
“I’m hanging up.”
“So, listen. I need to ask you a really uncomfortable question.”
“Um. Okay.”
“I’ve been wondering this for a year and a half.”
“Okay?”
“So I know you grew up with cannibals.”
“Yeah?”
“Did you uh, ever eat anyone?”
“Not that I know of.”
“No. No no. I know who we need to kill. It’s ___.”
(Stare)
(Choked up)
We got so choked up we had to come back later.
Via text:
“Are you up?”
(Nothing)
“Are you awake?”
(Silence)
“Awake yet?”
(Blank)
“I’m going to kill Rom.”
“I’m here. I’m here. Don’t touch anything.”
“I think we should have the old guy pick his nose.”
“We can’t have him pick his nose.”
“Everyone picks their nose.”
“He can’t pick his nose.”
“You pick your nose.”
“I’m writing this thing about what it’s like to write with you. Wanna read it?”
“Yeah.”
(Screen-sharing ensues)
(Laughter)
“This is great. Just make sure they know it’s you picking your nose and not me.”
“Uh huh.”
Of course he's weird. As weird as anyone else who grew up with cannibals. As strange as your average seven million bookselling novelist who lives mostly on peanuts and barbeque in Texas and, you know, speaks an obscure language known only to remote tribes in Papua New Guinea.
Or as weird as you and me.
And yet, the questions persist. "He scares me," author friends confess in low tones.
He scares me, too. Because, you know, it's just not healthy to eat that many peanuts.
***
Snippets of the work day, below. It’s up to you in most cases to guess who’s saying what.
“So, I accidentally killed ___ in this scene.”
“WHAT? That’s not on the outline.”
“Dude. It was his time.”
“But—”
“You gotta let him go, man. Let him go.”
On iChat:
“What’ve you got for lunch?”
“Um, sandwich (holds it up).”
“Oh man. That is way better than my V8/Greenfood shake/Cheetohs.”
“You seriously live on that?”
“So far.”
“Look. This is what I think we need to do.”
“I don’t like it.”
“What? Why not? It’s brilliant.”
“Because.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t.”
“Okay, this is what needs to happen now.”
“I don’t want to do that.”
“But it’d be cool.”
“Okay.”
“What?”
“I said let’s do it.”
“You’re supposed to defend your position.”
***
Some days, Ted's wife, LeeAnn, comes up to talk to her husband. She leans in to say hello, waving at the screen. She's always gorgeous, put together and made up.
Without fail, I’m wearing the same t-shirt I wore yesterday. And, truth by told, the day before. Except that I had one of my ever-present polar fleece tops on, so no one knew it. At least no one can smell me.
***
Ted: “Check out the UK version of Forbidden. Look! It’s so cute!”
Me: “You said ‘cute.’”
“They have to kiss here.”
“Is this a kissing book? Can we skip that part?”
“They have to kiss.”
“I hate it when they kiss.”
“You write it.”
“I think ___ should happen here.”
“No.”
“Yes. Or I’m going to say you pick your nose in my status update.”
“You’re being difficult.”
“No I’m not.”
“You are.”
“No I’m not.”
“I’m calling your wife.”
“Okay. Okay, okay.”
Ted: “Every time I talk to you you’re eating.”
“I have to go. I have a workout.”
“Me, too.”
“I don’t want to. It hurts.”
“Let’s call in sick.”
“Why’d you change that? It was great!”
(Silence.)
“Hello?”
“We’ve been talking about TV shows for 45 minutes.”
“Yeah. We need to work.”
“Yeah, let’s work.”
“Did you see The Walking Dead?”
“That last scene you did was really cool.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Except that you kind of went on and on.”
“What?”
“And then you used a semi-colon.”
“So?”
“And you have this habit of—”
“I thought you said it was cool?!”
“You’re eating peanuts again.”
“No I’m not.”
“I can hear you crunching.”
“That’s not crunching.”
“Crunching!”
“I always make that sound.”
“Because you’re eating peanuts.”
“It’s hard work making stuff up.”
“I’ve written 30 books. Don’t talk to me.”
“You done with that scene yet?”
“No.”
“You done yet?”
“No.”
“You done yet?”
“I’m hanging up.”
“So, listen. I need to ask you a really uncomfortable question.”
“Um. Okay.”
“I’ve been wondering this for a year and a half.”
“Okay?”
“So I know you grew up with cannibals.”
“Yeah?”
“Did you uh, ever eat anyone?”
“Not that I know of.”
“No. No no. I know who we need to kill. It’s ___.”
(Stare)
(Choked up)
We got so choked up we had to come back later.
Via text:
“Are you up?”
(Nothing)
“Are you awake?”
(Silence)
“Awake yet?”
(Blank)
“I’m going to kill Rom.”
“I’m here. I’m here. Don’t touch anything.”
“I think we should have the old guy pick his nose.”
“We can’t have him pick his nose.”
“Everyone picks their nose.”
“He can’t pick his nose.”
“You pick your nose.”
“I’m writing this thing about what it’s like to write with you. Wanna read it?”
“Yeah.”
(Screen-sharing ensues)
(Laughter)
“This is great. Just make sure they know it’s you picking your nose and not me.”
“Uh huh.”
Between Diligence and Surrender
There's a surreal gap in time before a manuscript's last pass and the book's launch. That amnesiac space between forgetting the finer points of research just as interviews to begin. Of trying to remember how to do your hair and assemble an outfit that doesn't consist of pajama pants after weeks of rambling around the house with a ketchup stain on your shirt. When you're not quite surrendered to the new story eating away at your synapses, and the one that just left a gaping hole where grey matter used to be.
It's a weird time for me--holding on to the familiarity of something that was exclusively mine, given up in incremental editing. Of emerging from the introvert's asylum of the computer screen in order to promote something I steadfastly refused to talk much about for more than a year.
What's it like to have a book release? Scary as hell. Because maybe you didn't do enough. Maybe you should have slept less, slaved longer, worried more and prayed harder. But now it's going, going--gone--to print, and there's nothing else you can do about it.
It's also awesome. Awesome to see the thing that just eight months ago resembled some mutant life washed up on Japan's radioactive shores evoke words on Goodreads like "inspiring," and "I couldn't put it down." Frankly, it's hard to recognize the thing that once sprouted two heads and three arms on my hard drive in reviews like that. Definite proof that God is in the space between my desk and reader's Writer Cam 2hearts. I don't know how that works. I do know it's a mystery.
So I'm telling you: stay in there. Do the work. Be a hermit and wear your pajamas for as long as you need to. Because something crazy happens between the diligence and the surrender. And for as much as I'm supposed to be good at description, I cannot do it justice except to say that there's fear, wonder--and gratitude.
Most of all, gratitude. Not for having done it, but for having been a part of the process.
It's a weird time for me--holding on to the familiarity of something that was exclusively mine, given up in incremental editing. Of emerging from the introvert's asylum of the computer screen in order to promote something I steadfastly refused to talk much about for more than a year.
What's it like to have a book release? Scary as hell. Because maybe you didn't do enough. Maybe you should have slept less, slaved longer, worried more and prayed harder. But now it's going, going--gone--to print, and there's nothing else you can do about it.
It's also awesome. Awesome to see the thing that just eight months ago resembled some mutant life washed up on Japan's radioactive shores evoke words on Goodreads like "inspiring," and "I couldn't put it down." Frankly, it's hard to recognize the thing that once sprouted two heads and three arms on my hard drive in reviews like that. Definite proof that God is in the space between my desk and reader's Writer Cam 2hearts. I don't know how that works. I do know it's a mystery.
So I'm telling you: stay in there. Do the work. Be a hermit and wear your pajamas for as long as you need to. Because something crazy happens between the diligence and the surrender. And for as much as I'm supposed to be good at description, I cannot do it justice except to say that there's fear, wonder--and gratitude.
Most of all, gratitude. Not for having done it, but for having been a part of the process.
Story of a Release, Part II
I'm thumbing through my first copy of Legend of Sheba--it just arrived on my step an hour ago. This is always a surreal moment for me. Here's why: there's a story I tell myself when I'm staring at the blank computer screen wondering how I'm going to fill it. I tell myself, "It's not really now. It's really the future. You're standing in the kitchen, reading this book right now. The words are on the page, and some of them are familiar, and some you forgot you wrote, but they're there, printed on the page. You're thinking back to this moment, wondering how to write this story. But in fact, the book is written."
I used to do this same trick when I played the piano. I was a competitive concert pianist in my teens. The only problem: I was terrified of performing. When I gave my first solo recital at age fourteen, I was certain I would be the first fourteen year old in the history of mankind of die of a coronary. I remember standing backstage, saying to myself, "It's not really now. The concert is over--you're only remembering back to this moment." And of course, at a near point in the future and ever since, that has been true.
Yes, it's a mind trick, but in a way, it really is true. The book is already written. Time is not a straight line as we know it. And honestly, even after manuscript is turned in and committed to print, it's not really finished; no art ever truly is. It's just captured at a moment in time when it's as near complete as it can be at that moment. Sometimes we get the chance to go back and reprise a performance or revise a story (I'm having my second shot at this with Demon and Havah as they are getting released for the third time this coming year from Simon & Schuster.) Other times we let that snapshot stand, even as the art continues to evolve, unobserved.
I used to do this same trick when I played the piano. I was a competitive concert pianist in my teens. The only problem: I was terrified of performing. When I gave my first solo recital at age fourteen, I was certain I would be the first fourteen year old in the history of mankind of die of a coronary. I remember standing backstage, saying to myself, "It's not really now. The concert is over--you're only remembering back to this moment." And of course, at a near point in the future and ever since, that has been true.
Yes, it's a mind trick, but in a way, it really is true. The book is already written. Time is not a straight line as we know it. And honestly, even after manuscript is turned in and committed to print, it's not really finished; no art ever truly is. It's just captured at a moment in time when it's as near complete as it can be at that moment. Sometimes we get the chance to go back and reprise a performance or revise a story (I'm having my second shot at this with Demon and Havah as they are getting released for the third time this coming year from Simon & Schuster.) Other times we let that snapshot stand, even as the art continues to evolve, unobserved.
The Edit
How does a book get to that "as complete as it can be by pub date" stage? When you work with a traditional publisher, it gets there by four stages of editing:
1) The substantive, or "macro" edit. This is the 30,000 foot view edit. It usually comes in the form of a letter from your editor and addresses issues such as plot, character, length, flow and anything that isn't working. And so you go in and revise--often drastically. This isn't the stage to nit-pick at sentences, but I do anyway.
2) The line edit. This is a more granular edit, often by a freelancer hired by your editor. It addresses sentence structure, pace/flow, sections that can be cut, things that aren't clear or consistent, and any general questions that arise as the editor is reading. It includes some sentence structure and grammar. You rewrite a little more, in smaller chunks. This is supposed to be a far less time-consuming edit, and some authors will simply addresses comments and be done, sanity in tact. I tend to rewrite any sentence, dialogue or scene that doesn't feel right to me even at this stage. I will work on it every day I have until I need to turn it back in, sometimes up to 20 hours a day.
3) The copy edit. This is grammar, place and character names, and punctuation. The copy editor--the third set of eyes provided by your publisher--usually makes a list of all the names, places and grammar conventions that will be used in the book for the sake of consistency. You're not supposed to do much re-writing at this stage. Notice I said "supposed to."
4) The galley/design pages. This is a hard copy edit where you receive a printout of the sheets, laid out and designed as they will be for the book. At this point, you are only looking for misspellings and typos that escaped the copy edit and things that got weird while being typeset. I will still rewrite sentences that don't flow smoothly and cut a paragraph here and there even at this stage, generating curse words at the New York office, I'm sure. After the design pages for Sheba were turned in and revised, I sent a bottle of wine to the copy editor who made my final changes as an apology. But it was really a bribe because I wasn't that sorry.
1) The substantive, or "macro" edit. This is the 30,000 foot view edit. It usually comes in the form of a letter from your editor and addresses issues such as plot, character, length, flow and anything that isn't working. And so you go in and revise--often drastically. This isn't the stage to nit-pick at sentences, but I do anyway.
2) The line edit. This is a more granular edit, often by a freelancer hired by your editor. It addresses sentence structure, pace/flow, sections that can be cut, things that aren't clear or consistent, and any general questions that arise as the editor is reading. It includes some sentence structure and grammar. You rewrite a little more, in smaller chunks. This is supposed to be a far less time-consuming edit, and some authors will simply addresses comments and be done, sanity in tact. I tend to rewrite any sentence, dialogue or scene that doesn't feel right to me even at this stage. I will work on it every day I have until I need to turn it back in, sometimes up to 20 hours a day.
3) The copy edit. This is grammar, place and character names, and punctuation. The copy editor--the third set of eyes provided by your publisher--usually makes a list of all the names, places and grammar conventions that will be used in the book for the sake of consistency. You're not supposed to do much re-writing at this stage. Notice I said "supposed to."
4) The galley/design pages. This is a hard copy edit where you receive a printout of the sheets, laid out and designed as they will be for the book. At this point, you are only looking for misspellings and typos that escaped the copy edit and things that got weird while being typeset. I will still rewrite sentences that don't flow smoothly and cut a paragraph here and there even at this stage, generating curse words at the New York office, I'm sure. After the design pages for Sheba were turned in and revised, I sent a bottle of wine to the copy editor who made my final changes as an apology. But it was really a bribe because I wasn't that sorry.
NaNoWriMo
To date I've written eight novels (one unpublished, lurking like a skeleton in my basement) and two computer books. (Yes. I started my professional, paid career writing about computers.) Ten books later, I still find something wildly appealing about National Novel Writing Month. I've written a great bulk of my published work during NaNoWriMo... and the rest of it during self-imposed wild writing binges. I practically kill myself each time, swear off ever putting myself through such straits again... and then do it once more. I've come to accept this as my standard M.O. Looking back to high school and college, I can tell you that every single paper I ever wrote was accomplished in an all-nighter that ended the morning it was due.
Why?
I think it comes down to the fact that I've watched too many movies. You know the ones with the heart-thumping montages--where the hero, after procrastinating and eventually hitting rock bottom, picks himself up and goes all mad dog? Yes, I'm talking about the Rocky movies. You, Me, and Dupree. Back to School. The Karate Kid. A League of Their Own.
Call me cheesy, but I love that stuff (admit it, you do, too.) We love it for two reasons. The first is that we all procrastinate to some degree. And what's another name for procrastination? Fear. Plain and simple. We are afraid. That we will fail. That what we produce will not look like the vision in our heads. That we will prove to ourselves that the little voice (or big one) saying we will never achieve it will be right. So we do something else. We go out with friends. We clean. We drink. We watch TV. We hide in the safety of relationships and urgent to-dos.
The second reason: Because there comes a point where, if you get sick of it enough--or mad enough--you have no choice but to go balls-to-the-walls through your fear and do it. To the exclusion (almost) of all else. Because, simply put, the pain of not doing it is worse than the fear of trying.
My father, an academic, has written more than 60 books. He has told me numerous times that there's value in intensity. The pressure keeps it immediate.
This is how I write. It may not work for everyone. On occasion, I will indeed sit down for a few days in a row, plunk out 2000 words, and stop for the day. And truthfully, that's probably far healthier in the long run. But we're not talking about health here if we're rabid about pursuing dreams. We're talking about passion. And so... at some point every few months, I go silent on my friends. I show up to events late (if I haven't begged off on them altogether). I cancel haircuts and workouts. I make excuses like an addict defending a drug habit. I write until I'm cross-eyed during the wee (or late) hours of morning, stagger to bed, and do it again the next day. Yes, it is exhausting. But more than that... it is exciting. The action of my story is immediate, pouring out of me in 500, then 2000... 8000... even 16,000 words per day.
Momentum of that sort breeds its own velocity.
I have done this while holding down two jobs, while being married, and while traveling the world for my work every week. Because frankly, I was too pissed off at my own fear (and I have much) not to barrel through it.
And apparently I don't know how to barrel in slow-motion.
For me, that's what it takes. For all my numerous attempts at discipline, I have never kept well to routine. Obsessive momentum sees me through until, reaching the end, I can rest for days, slack off for a while, turn my attention to cleaning my house, sorting out my inbox, and picking up the pieces of everything I let fall to hell while I was working... before returning to my work and beginning to piece it together far more cohesively than it came out.
That's why I love NaNoWriMo. Because for one month, I am surrounded by others barreling through the same fear as me.
Maybe you're the disciplined type. You'll never be the one cramming for a semester's worth of work--or half a novel's worth of writing--in one night. Chances are, you'll be the healthier for it. You can measure your passion out in doses like medicine. Don't change. Just up the stakes and push the limits a little more--if not for Nano, then for a specified period of time. Because there's magic in intensity and pushing yourself just beyond what you think you can do. But if you're like me, and will never reconcile yourself to a neatly-blocked schedule, quit beating yourself up for not being like your more structured peers. Soar with your bad self. Give yourself permission, and go for it. Time to glean the gold and edit after.
Why?
I think it comes down to the fact that I've watched too many movies. You know the ones with the heart-thumping montages--where the hero, after procrastinating and eventually hitting rock bottom, picks himself up and goes all mad dog? Yes, I'm talking about the Rocky movies. You, Me, and Dupree. Back to School. The Karate Kid. A League of Their Own.
Call me cheesy, but I love that stuff (admit it, you do, too.) We love it for two reasons. The first is that we all procrastinate to some degree. And what's another name for procrastination? Fear. Plain and simple. We are afraid. That we will fail. That what we produce will not look like the vision in our heads. That we will prove to ourselves that the little voice (or big one) saying we will never achieve it will be right. So we do something else. We go out with friends. We clean. We drink. We watch TV. We hide in the safety of relationships and urgent to-dos.
The second reason: Because there comes a point where, if you get sick of it enough--or mad enough--you have no choice but to go balls-to-the-walls through your fear and do it. To the exclusion (almost) of all else. Because, simply put, the pain of not doing it is worse than the fear of trying.
My father, an academic, has written more than 60 books. He has told me numerous times that there's value in intensity. The pressure keeps it immediate.
This is how I write. It may not work for everyone. On occasion, I will indeed sit down for a few days in a row, plunk out 2000 words, and stop for the day. And truthfully, that's probably far healthier in the long run. But we're not talking about health here if we're rabid about pursuing dreams. We're talking about passion. And so... at some point every few months, I go silent on my friends. I show up to events late (if I haven't begged off on them altogether). I cancel haircuts and workouts. I make excuses like an addict defending a drug habit. I write until I'm cross-eyed during the wee (or late) hours of morning, stagger to bed, and do it again the next day. Yes, it is exhausting. But more than that... it is exciting. The action of my story is immediate, pouring out of me in 500, then 2000... 8000... even 16,000 words per day.
Momentum of that sort breeds its own velocity.
I have done this while holding down two jobs, while being married, and while traveling the world for my work every week. Because frankly, I was too pissed off at my own fear (and I have much) not to barrel through it.
And apparently I don't know how to barrel in slow-motion.
For me, that's what it takes. For all my numerous attempts at discipline, I have never kept well to routine. Obsessive momentum sees me through until, reaching the end, I can rest for days, slack off for a while, turn my attention to cleaning my house, sorting out my inbox, and picking up the pieces of everything I let fall to hell while I was working... before returning to my work and beginning to piece it together far more cohesively than it came out.
That's why I love NaNoWriMo. Because for one month, I am surrounded by others barreling through the same fear as me.
Maybe you're the disciplined type. You'll never be the one cramming for a semester's worth of work--or half a novel's worth of writing--in one night. Chances are, you'll be the healthier for it. You can measure your passion out in doses like medicine. Don't change. Just up the stakes and push the limits a little more--if not for Nano, then for a specified period of time. Because there's magic in intensity and pushing yourself just beyond what you think you can do. But if you're like me, and will never reconcile yourself to a neatly-blocked schedule, quit beating yourself up for not being like your more structured peers. Soar with your bad self. Give yourself permission, and go for it. Time to glean the gold and edit after.
On Writing Legend of Sheba
Why write about the famous Queen of Sheba? My on-screen answers have to do with wanting to explore this rich, pagan queen who impressed the authors of Kings and Chronicles so much that they included what amounted to her endorsement of King Solomon in their narratives. But my first reason was that I wanted to be a girl again. After writing the first-person characters of Clay in Demon and Judas in Iscariot, as well as numerous male characters in the Books of Mortals, I missed the female voice I had so enjoyed in Havah. And, being set nearly a thousand years before the time of Christ, the queen’s story would be much easier to research with more room for speculation than, say, Iscariot, right?
Wrong.
If Iscariot proved difficult for the sheer volume of material available on first century Israel, The Legend of Sheba proved difficult for the opposite reason. Scholars don’t even agree whether Almaqah, the primary god of Sheba (probably present-day Yemen) was a moon or sun deity. Never mind the involvement of the mysterious Ark of the Covenant and all the conspiracy theories surrounding its disappearance and hidden location. Once again, I consulted the experts: missionaries who had served in Yemen—a place too rife with conflict and kidnapping for me to travel for research—history professors, doctors of archaeology and the Hebrew Bible.
This time, I did not overwrite the story, but kept the heart of it forefront in my mind: the ideas of love, possession, and the desire to be truly known.
I had, by this time, begun to date a single father of four—a land developer and farmer who lived an hour away from me. (How we met is another story—one I will tell you if you ask me in person.) I set up shop on sunny days at his kitchen counter when my office became oppressive, a pillow wedged onto a wooden barstool, toes curled round the rungs. The banquet chapter and the bulk of Sheba and Solomon’s letters were written there in the country, out of reach of my cell phone service. I fell in love with a second man during that time—the queen’s loyal eunuch, Yafush, whom I shamelessly modeled after Karen Blixen’s butler Farah in Out of Africa, one of my favorite movies of all time.
The Legend of Sheba took several months longer than expected—about a year and a half—to write. It released September 9, 2014. Four days later, at my home Barnes & Noble book signing, my boyfriend proposed. (See the stories and photos on my website.) By the time my next book releases, I will be getting married (you won’t mind if I forego book tour in lieu of a honeymoon, will you?)
From March 2-15, 2015, The Legend of Sheba eBook is available for just $1.99.
Wrong.
If Iscariot proved difficult for the sheer volume of material available on first century Israel, The Legend of Sheba proved difficult for the opposite reason. Scholars don’t even agree whether Almaqah, the primary god of Sheba (probably present-day Yemen) was a moon or sun deity. Never mind the involvement of the mysterious Ark of the Covenant and all the conspiracy theories surrounding its disappearance and hidden location. Once again, I consulted the experts: missionaries who had served in Yemen—a place too rife with conflict and kidnapping for me to travel for research—history professors, doctors of archaeology and the Hebrew Bible.
This time, I did not overwrite the story, but kept the heart of it forefront in my mind: the ideas of love, possession, and the desire to be truly known.
I had, by this time, begun to date a single father of four—a land developer and farmer who lived an hour away from me. (How we met is another story—one I will tell you if you ask me in person.) I set up shop on sunny days at his kitchen counter when my office became oppressive, a pillow wedged onto a wooden barstool, toes curled round the rungs. The banquet chapter and the bulk of Sheba and Solomon’s letters were written there in the country, out of reach of my cell phone service. I fell in love with a second man during that time—the queen’s loyal eunuch, Yafush, whom I shamelessly modeled after Karen Blixen’s butler Farah in Out of Africa, one of my favorite movies of all time.
The Legend of Sheba took several months longer than expected—about a year and a half—to write. It released September 9, 2014. Four days later, at my home Barnes & Noble book signing, my boyfriend proposed. (See the stories and photos on my website.) By the time my next book releases, I will be getting married (you won’t mind if I forego book tour in lieu of a honeymoon, will you?)
From March 2-15, 2015, The Legend of Sheba eBook is available for just $1.99.
On First Drafts
A friend recently asked me if I enjoyed writing. My honest answer was, “Sometimes.”
The truth is that I’m a second or third draft writer. That’s the point in the process when I get to see what kind of clay I’ve really got on the wheel, when I can crimp the edges and pull out my high points, and make the dire ones worse. When I’ll stay up twenty hours straight and, after just enough sleep to make me more tired, go at it again. Because by then, at least, I have something to work with. But that first, initial draft? Pull my fingernails out from the beds with pliers, why don’t you.
I have friends who turn on their playlists and lay down first drafts in a state of euphoric bliss—the weird literary equivalent of women who experience pleasure in childbirth. I have never written like that. I do have moments of stream-of-conscious ecstasy that churn out sentences as coherent as word salad. But most of the time I sit in silence, stare out the window, pick at my lower lip and wonder if my last book, which won some award or another, was the last good thing I had in me.
“But don’t you have a system pretty well down by now?” the friend asks.
I nod vaguely, but the answer is not really. If anything, eight novels in (ten, if you count the unpublishable ones), I have an instinct about the basic material I need to get down, more or less in order. More importantly, I have trust in the writing and editing process and faith that I can patch up the leaks—later.
For now, in the early stages, I’m only interested in one thing: getting the clay on the wheel. I trust that there are seeds in there—of things real, from me, that will resonate in another soul in months and years to come. I don’t know what they are yet, and it’s not my business to force them into shape.
I have a few rules for this process that I briefly listed in my November issue. I put so much stock in these rules that I’m expounding on them below and in the next three issues to come.
1. Write like no one will ever read it.
In 1993, while writing on the staff of
“We just wanted to make a game we would want to play,” the one brother said. I have never forgotten this. Write the story you want to live—and live it for yourself, first. Take that journey—don’t just build a roller coaster for a reader to consume at some point down the line. Ride it, yourself, screaming, yelling, and peeing your pants, first.
Ride it yourself, screaming, yelling and peeing your pants first.
“But what about the audience? You have to think about them!” Forget them. Everything you do from your edits on will be about them. But for now, write with the candor you would in a secret journal. It is the only way to be authentic with the grit of everything you need to say without worrying that it’s pretty or eloquent or clean enough. Don’t be pretty. Be raw.
If you are an aspiring writer whose end goal is to be published, let me tell you something: you will never be as bold and daring as you are in those first blissful years of writing before your work finally gets published. Before critics post public reviews of your work and readers rank you like a blender on Amazon. Before people forget that you’re a real, breathing person and respond only to your picture and covers as a brand. This undiscovered period in your life is an advantage you won’t have twice. Use it.
Eight novels later, I have to trick myself into following this rule. I know my agent, editor, and a movie producer are waiting for my first draft. I want them to like it. Oh, who am I kidding—I want them to tell me it’s the best thing they’ve ever read, that they wept, told their therapist, and pre-ordered 100 copies for friends and distant acquaintances.
But the only way I will touch one cell of their soul is if I banish their faces from my mind—along with beloved readers and reviewers. No one will read this. It is my mantra. This is me, writing secret stuff in safety, dealing some audacious literary badassery. Time to edit, censor, and make coherent later. The good stuff happens now.
The truth is that I’m a second or third draft writer. That’s the point in the process when I get to see what kind of clay I’ve really got on the wheel, when I can crimp the edges and pull out my high points, and make the dire ones worse. When I’ll stay up twenty hours straight and, after just enough sleep to make me more tired, go at it again. Because by then, at least, I have something to work with. But that first, initial draft? Pull my fingernails out from the beds with pliers, why don’t you.
I have friends who turn on their playlists and lay down first drafts in a state of euphoric bliss—the weird literary equivalent of women who experience pleasure in childbirth. I have never written like that. I do have moments of stream-of-conscious ecstasy that churn out sentences as coherent as word salad. But most of the time I sit in silence, stare out the window, pick at my lower lip and wonder if my last book, which won some award or another, was the last good thing I had in me.
“But don’t you have a system pretty well down by now?” the friend asks.
I nod vaguely, but the answer is not really. If anything, eight novels in (ten, if you count the unpublishable ones), I have an instinct about the basic material I need to get down, more or less in order. More importantly, I have trust in the writing and editing process and faith that I can patch up the leaks—later.
For now, in the early stages, I’m only interested in one thing: getting the clay on the wheel. I trust that there are seeds in there—of things real, from me, that will resonate in another soul in months and years to come. I don’t know what they are yet, and it’s not my business to force them into shape.
I have a few rules for this process that I briefly listed in my November issue. I put so much stock in these rules that I’m expounding on them below and in the next three issues to come.
1. Write like no one will ever read it.
In 1993, while writing on the staff of
“We just wanted to make a game we would want to play,” the one brother said. I have never forgotten this. Write the story you want to live—and live it for yourself, first. Take that journey—don’t just build a roller coaster for a reader to consume at some point down the line. Ride it, yourself, screaming, yelling, and peeing your pants, first.
Ride it yourself, screaming, yelling and peeing your pants first.
“But what about the audience? You have to think about them!” Forget them. Everything you do from your edits on will be about them. But for now, write with the candor you would in a secret journal. It is the only way to be authentic with the grit of everything you need to say without worrying that it’s pretty or eloquent or clean enough. Don’t be pretty. Be raw.
If you are an aspiring writer whose end goal is to be published, let me tell you something: you will never be as bold and daring as you are in those first blissful years of writing before your work finally gets published. Before critics post public reviews of your work and readers rank you like a blender on Amazon. Before people forget that you’re a real, breathing person and respond only to your picture and covers as a brand. This undiscovered period in your life is an advantage you won’t have twice. Use it.
Eight novels later, I have to trick myself into following this rule. I know my agent, editor, and a movie producer are waiting for my first draft. I want them to like it. Oh, who am I kidding—I want them to tell me it’s the best thing they’ve ever read, that they wept, told their therapist, and pre-ordered 100 copies for friends and distant acquaintances.
But the only way I will touch one cell of their soul is if I banish their faces from my mind—along with beloved readers and reviewers. No one will read this. It is my mantra. This is me, writing secret stuff in safety, dealing some audacious literary badassery. Time to edit, censor, and make coherent later. The good stuff happens now.
Behind the Scenes: On Havah
At some point during the six years I waited for Demon to sell, I randomly penned a single page in the voice of the earth’s first woman. I imagined her nearly 900 years old and near death, preparing at last to tell her full story. I’m not sure why I did this—I only remember her voice, warbled with age, as vivid in my head as my old Korean grandmother’s was the last time I saw her before her death.
And then I put the page away in a drawer where I kept scribbles and random story notes, and forgot about it.
In 2005, as my agent and I were negotiating the sale of Demon, my soon-to-be-editor asked what else I had. I remember looking blankly around, yanking that drawer open and fishing inside. “I have this…” I said, pulling out the fringed notebook page, which eventually became the prologue to Havah. Of course, I had no idea what I was getting myself into. A year later, Genesis commentaries, horticulture textbooks, books on ancient farming, early weapons, textiles, basket weaving, brick-making and early civilizations littered my floor alongside a copy of What to Expect When You’re Expecting.
I was fascinated with the emotional journey of Adam and Eve, with the potential for tension between the alpha Adam and his first son, the idea of seeing a first infant, the first death, the first enmity between human and animal and dysfunction in relationship.
But there was a problem. I was paralyzed by Demon’s early success, which had garnered rave reviews and award nominations in the first months of its release. And here I was, about to prove myself a one-hit wonder.
I chased Eve’s story in a dogged panic and overwrote the first draft by 67,000 words (about 260 pages). Somewhere toward the end, I called my friend Meredith.
“I can’t do this anymore. I’m so tired. I can’t get it out.”
“You’re almost there!” she said.
“I can’t—”
“Push! PUSH!!”
I whined, begged for some kind of creative epidural and went back to work, convinced I was birthing some literary monster.
Some time after Havah released with a starred review from Publishers Weekly, I realized I had learned a valuable lesson. I wasn’t sure what it was yet, but it had something to do with forests and trees and simply bearing down on the work.
In 2005, as my agent and I were negotiating the sale of Demon, my soon-to-be-editor asked what else I had. I remember looking blankly around, yanking that drawer open and fishing inside. “I have this…” I said, pulling out the fringed notebook page, which eventually became the prologue to Havah. Of course, I had no idea what I was getting myself into. A year later, Genesis commentaries, horticulture textbooks, books on ancient farming, early weapons, textiles, basket weaving, brick-making and early civilizations littered my floor alongside a copy of What to Expect When You’re Expecting.
I was fascinated with the emotional journey of Adam and Eve, with the potential for tension between the alpha Adam and his first son, the idea of seeing a first infant, the first death, the first enmity between human and animal and dysfunction in relationship.
But there was a problem. I was paralyzed by Demon’s early success, which had garnered rave reviews and award nominations in the first months of its release. And here I was, about to prove myself a one-hit wonder.
I chased Eve’s story in a dogged panic and overwrote the first draft by 67,000 words (about 260 pages). Somewhere toward the end, I called my friend Meredith.
“I can’t do this anymore. I’m so tired. I can’t get it out.”
“You’re almost there!” she said.
“I can’t—”
“Push! PUSH!!”
I whined, begged for some kind of creative epidural and went back to work, convinced I was birthing some literary monster.
Some time after Havah released with a starred review from Publishers Weekly, I realized I had learned a valuable lesson. I wasn’t sure what it was yet, but it had something to do with forests and trees and simply bearing down on the work.
Alchemy Online Writing Bootcamp!
image: 
Writing friends, as you may have guessed, COVID-19 has necessarily altered plans for the Alchemy Writers' Retreat and we've had no choice but to postpone to June 11-13, 2021. So please plan to join us next year for a boutique writers’ workshop and retreat in the Heartland. ❤️
Meanwhile, we just couldn’t wait an entire year. So June 13, Kimberly Stuart, Nicole Baart, and I are hosting ALCHEMY BOOTCAMP!
Finding it hard to be creative during corona? We can help! Join us for a fun, informative afternoon designed to help you make the most of this unprecedented time. We’ll be team-teaching and sharing some of our best tips, tricks, and ideas to give you the boost that you need. This will be *perfect* for everyone joining us at Alchemy 2021 (don’t worry, this is all new material—there will be no overlap in the teaching), as well as ANYONE who needs some encouragement and direction.
So join us Saturday, June 13 from 1:00-4:30pm CST for a 3-hour bootcamp to jumpstart your writing! $99 will give you access to an exclusive, LIVE online event including time for your questions in our live Q&A and some very special surprises along the way. You’ll leave feeling refreshed, energized, and with some clear steps to help you keep moving forward with your writing. We hope to “see” you there!
Date: June 13 1:00-4:30pm Central (2:00-5:30 Eastern/11:00-2:30 Pacific)
Cost: $99
Register today right here and put it on your calendar!
Writing friends, as you may have guessed, COVID-19 has necessarily altered plans for the Alchemy Writers' Retreat and we've had no choice but to postpone to June 11-13, 2021. So please plan to join us next year for a boutique writers’ workshop and retreat in the Heartland. ❤️
Meanwhile, we just couldn’t wait an entire year. So June 13, Kimberly Stuart, Nicole Baart, and I are hosting ALCHEMY BOOTCAMP!
Finding it hard to be creative during corona? We can help! Join us for a fun, informative afternoon designed to help you make the most of this unprecedented time. We’ll be team-teaching and sharing some of our best tips, tricks, and ideas to give you the boost that you need. This will be *perfect* for everyone joining us at Alchemy 2021 (don’t worry, this is all new material—there will be no overlap in the teaching), as well as ANYONE who needs some encouragement and direction.
So join us Saturday, June 13 from 1:00-4:30pm CST for a 3-hour bootcamp to jumpstart your writing! $99 will give you access to an exclusive, LIVE online event including time for your questions in our live Q&A and some very special surprises along the way. You’ll leave feeling refreshed, energized, and with some clear steps to help you keep moving forward with your writing. We hope to “see” you there!
Date: June 13 1:00-4:30pm Central (2:00-5:30 Eastern/11:00-2:30 Pacific)
Cost: $99
Register today right here and put it on your calendar!
Learn With Me!
What do you do when you’ve spent months (even years) researching history, geography, legend, and love for a novel after it’s written? You share allllll the insider tidbits that you didn’t get to put in the book!
Next month I’ll be teaching a live online course for the Osher Lifelong Learning Institute at UNL on the Queen of Sheba and King Solomon of history, religious tradition, and legend. Join me over the course of three Wednesday evenings for a walk through ancient and opulent sands.
For information about OLLI at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln, visit: https://olli.unl.edu/about-olli. For the 2021 winter course catalog, visit: https://issuu.com/olliatunl/docs/wint....
For writers, I’ve just recorded a workshop on writing suspense and thrillers for West Coast Christian Writers’ February mega-conference. In it, I share my favorite tips for keeping readers turning pages past bedtime. For information on West Coast Christian Writers, visit: https://westcoastchristianwriters.com.... For the full workshop lineup, visit: https://westcoastchristianwriters.com...
Top Photo: Yes, that’s a vase under my laptop and yes, I’m wearing sweatpants and my socks don’t match my non-outfit and the house is mid-renovation, but I love, love passing along what I’ve learned, and helping others move toward their dreams!
