When to Hold Em, When to Fold Em: Books in the Drawer
How do you know when to put a book away away and when to keep on plugging? Is it an ingrained personality trait (stubbornness?) that keeps one going? Does an innate wisdom kick in and tell you to give it up? How do you know whether you’re throwing good money after bad or giving up too soon?
Arthur Golden spent ten years working on Memoirs of A Geisha, which then spent 2 years on the NYT bestseller list and sold millions of copies. Herman Melville and Nathaniel Hawthorne passed an ultimately never-published book back and forth for years. Bestselling author Janet Evanovich admits to having three books in the drawer that will never see light.
Nicole Bernier, Beyond The Margins, reveals that Amy Bloom yanked back a novel which was accepted for publication, admitting in an interview, “It was my warm-up … It wasn’t anything of which I had to be deeply ashamed. But it wasn’t as good as I wanted it to be. Once I saw that, then I wanted it not in print.”
I have three books in the drawer (not counting half-hearted starts, odd-ball attempts, and a co-authored near-miss.) One of the three is from many, many years ago and I would be terrified to open it. After I finished that book, someone convinced me to show it to their ‘connected-published-cousin-in-law’, who, after he read it, told me directly that it was awful and a waste of his time. (Poor guy, huh?) His particular tough-love sent me away from the keyboard for years.
My second book-in-the drawer I think of as part of my trilogy:
Book One: The book in which I learned proper techniques for sharper writing and characterization, but forgot about incorporating sub-plots. I carry much tenderness for this book, for the characters, and am still in love with my opening paragraphs. I got an agent with this novel (not my current agent.) While this book was out on submission, I began writing my next one, which I quickly saw was a better book. This was:
Book Two: The book where I learned multiple points of view and how to weave major and minor plot-points, but where I didn’t learn that tiptoeing and/or being polite can weaken a book. I still had a reader-over-my-shoulder with this one. (I’m still attached to the story and the characters.) While this book was out on submission (former agent and I having made the decision to pull Book One in favor of Book Two) I began working on Book Three.
Then, in the midst of all this, my agent (who was concentrating on YA) and I amicably parted ways. Soon after I finished:
Book Three: The one where I became published: The Murderer’s Daughters. After all my downs and downs, this book sold quickly. As the long publishing process unfolded, I began my next book. Why did I choose to begin a new work and not return to my previous novels? First, I had a new story bubbling to get out. Second, I needed to be certain I could do the proper surgery needed to resurrect either novel.
Arthur Golden tore his book apart after six years: changed point of view, where the story began, and God know what else. Obviously, he was able to approach it with the cold eyes one needs to perform a truly great revision. I wrote Book’s One and Two quickly and without the store of knowledge, technique and voice that now comes to me with more easily than it did previously. If I resuscitate either of these books, I’ll have to be laser-cold and them as dispassionately as I would a novel picked randomly from a bookstore shelf.
Letting go of a book takes a certain kind of courage—the ability to consider those years as a self-schooling. Even if the story never sees publication, the time put in fed one’s future work. However, putting in the years, as Golden did, to shape and craft and stay with a work takes a different kind of talent, patience and love. Perhaps it is a personality test—I know myself well. Maybe it wasn’t courage that led to my shoving my books in the proverbial drawer, but impatience with the idea of ripping apart and refashioning them.
Possibly, inner-tuning forks tell us when to move on and when to hold our cards. Despite loving Book One, I think (despite those fantastic two paragraphs and all those slick, funny lines) it will sleep with the fishes. Much as I heave a great lazy sigh breath of ‘not again’ at the idea of cutting and then re-stitching Book Two, it continues calling me.
Friends have gone in both directions—starting over or holding on. At least three writer-friends I know are reaping the rewards of sticking with it. Others are feeling free and hopeful because they’ve started new projects.
How did you make the decision to keep on going or start over? What brand of courage did you need to grab? How do you find the strength to let go?
Maybe I’ll just grab that first sentence and incorporate it into Book Four.
Arthur Golden spent ten years working on Memoirs of A Geisha, which then spent 2 years on the NYT bestseller list and sold millions of copies. Herman Melville and Nathaniel Hawthorne passed an ultimately never-published book back and forth for years. Bestselling author Janet Evanovich admits to having three books in the drawer that will never see light.
Nicole Bernier, Beyond The Margins, reveals that Amy Bloom yanked back a novel which was accepted for publication, admitting in an interview, “It was my warm-up … It wasn’t anything of which I had to be deeply ashamed. But it wasn’t as good as I wanted it to be. Once I saw that, then I wanted it not in print.”
I have three books in the drawer (not counting half-hearted starts, odd-ball attempts, and a co-authored near-miss.) One of the three is from many, many years ago and I would be terrified to open it. After I finished that book, someone convinced me to show it to their ‘connected-published-cousin-in-law’, who, after he read it, told me directly that it was awful and a waste of his time. (Poor guy, huh?) His particular tough-love sent me away from the keyboard for years.
My second book-in-the drawer I think of as part of my trilogy:
Book One: The book in which I learned proper techniques for sharper writing and characterization, but forgot about incorporating sub-plots. I carry much tenderness for this book, for the characters, and am still in love with my opening paragraphs. I got an agent with this novel (not my current agent.) While this book was out on submission, I began writing my next one, which I quickly saw was a better book. This was:
Book Two: The book where I learned multiple points of view and how to weave major and minor plot-points, but where I didn’t learn that tiptoeing and/or being polite can weaken a book. I still had a reader-over-my-shoulder with this one. (I’m still attached to the story and the characters.) While this book was out on submission (former agent and I having made the decision to pull Book One in favor of Book Two) I began working on Book Three.
Then, in the midst of all this, my agent (who was concentrating on YA) and I amicably parted ways. Soon after I finished:
Book Three: The one where I became published: The Murderer’s Daughters. After all my downs and downs, this book sold quickly. As the long publishing process unfolded, I began my next book. Why did I choose to begin a new work and not return to my previous novels? First, I had a new story bubbling to get out. Second, I needed to be certain I could do the proper surgery needed to resurrect either novel.
Arthur Golden tore his book apart after six years: changed point of view, where the story began, and God know what else. Obviously, he was able to approach it with the cold eyes one needs to perform a truly great revision. I wrote Book’s One and Two quickly and without the store of knowledge, technique and voice that now comes to me with more easily than it did previously. If I resuscitate either of these books, I’ll have to be laser-cold and them as dispassionately as I would a novel picked randomly from a bookstore shelf.
Letting go of a book takes a certain kind of courage—the ability to consider those years as a self-schooling. Even if the story never sees publication, the time put in fed one’s future work. However, putting in the years, as Golden did, to shape and craft and stay with a work takes a different kind of talent, patience and love. Perhaps it is a personality test—I know myself well. Maybe it wasn’t courage that led to my shoving my books in the proverbial drawer, but impatience with the idea of ripping apart and refashioning them.
Possibly, inner-tuning forks tell us when to move on and when to hold our cards. Despite loving Book One, I think (despite those fantastic two paragraphs and all those slick, funny lines) it will sleep with the fishes. Much as I heave a great lazy sigh breath of ‘not again’ at the idea of cutting and then re-stitching Book Two, it continues calling me.
Friends have gone in both directions—starting over or holding on. At least three writer-friends I know are reaping the rewards of sticking with it. Others are feeling free and hopeful because they’ve started new projects.
How did you make the decision to keep on going or start over? What brand of courage did you need to grab? How do you find the strength to let go?
Maybe I’ll just grab that first sentence and incorporate it into Book Four.
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