Storytellersunplugged

Where Words Meet

noses and grindstones and bears, oh my.

I’m doing one of my least favorite things in the world. Revising. And I will be doing that for the foreseeable future.

You see, I have two books due in the first week of November. This might seem like kind of a terrifying thing, but really it could be much worse. Because both of them are written.

That’s where things get complicated, though.

Because one of them needs a complete ground-up rewrite, including an entire new middle, plot and all, which I am about a third of the way into. Or, more precisely, I’ve just hit the part where the existing draft (which I have already rewritten about seven times) fell apart. Now, the rewrite involves turning this novel (All the Windwracked Stars) from first-person single-narrator noir into third-person with five POV characters, because part of the reason the original version was so broken was because Muire (my protagonist) missed a great deal of the plot, hearing about it–eventually–third-hand.

And I had to machine ways to get her into other portions of the plot, which could as easily be handled by different characters.

Not such a great thing.

The complication on the other one, which is Promethean Age #3 and currently Between Titles, is that I have no idea what it needs, because I am also currently Between Editors at that publishing house. You see, my former editor has accepted a position elsewhere and her replacement has not yet been hired. So, um.

I have a sensation that I might just wind up making the changes I know need to be made, and hoping a little direction arrives at some point. Because I don’t want to lose my July slot in the roster, and of course I’m a little interested in finding out who my new team-mate will be and if I will be able to work effectively with him or her or it, or if it’s going to be pitchforks and Frankenstein rakes.

So one worries.

Perhaps unduly.

(Bears, we will note, really suck at enduring suspense. I loathe surprises. Anticipation gives me panic attacks. Just either tell me, man, or don’t, and if you don’t tell me, don’t be surprised when I lose all interest in the proceedings and go off to do something else. Except, you know, that particular self-defense mechanism doesn’t really work when it’s your job under discussion.)

But first, I need to revise this other book, the Edda of Burdens book, the one with Muire in it.

And you see, that’s a conundrum. Because it really needs the revisions. It’s not very good, as it is, and I want to make it as close to brilliant as I possibly can. But man, by this point in the process–well, unless you’ve done it yourself, I can’t begin to describe how bored I am with this novel.

And this is also the point where I can’t remember what thing happens in which version, which is a problem I still have with Blood & Iron.

(Which is my most-rewritten novel, comprising twelve drafts, three of them massive gut-and-retrofits, including adding new POV characters and ripping out a third of the existing book.)

Yeah. Like that.

This is the part where it stops being about art or inspiration or even a Puritan work ethic, and becomes about nothing more than sheer bloodymindedness.

This is, in short, what we fondly* refer to as the glamour.

And for me, this is the hardest part of the process. It’s not any fun. It’s not revelatory. There’s no rush of creation, no euphoria, no dance of discovery. There is only the exhaustive working over and over of every damned sentence and line and idea, trying to make sure they make sense, trying to make sure they fit.

Most books I write have at least three drafts before an editor ever sees them. This one will have had eight. Maybe nine, because as I am doing such a complete rewrite and so much of it is new, it needs to be gone over with the fine-toothed comb reserved for new prose.

And then, after my editor sees it, I will be revising it again, at length and painstakingly.

Meanwhile, I need to do the final revision pass on Dust, which that editor just sent back to me, and get that returned to her by the end of the month.

At least I’ve only been over that one three or four times, so it probably won’t be quite so boring.

And I am visiting my dad in North Carolina right now, and driving all over the Eastern seaboard, and attending a writer’s retreat starting Saturday. And the purpose of these things is supposedly to buy you more time to write, or give you a break from writing, and give you a chance to bond with other writers, and to learn by critiquing their work, and… something?

And mostly right now I’m just stressed out about it as one more thing I am supposed to be doing. (Of course once I get there it will be whoosh! Nothing but fun! Because I love these people. But still. Aiiieeeee. To put it softly.)

…still sure you want to be a writer?

*Where “fondly” means “ironically.” - Ed.

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