Storytellersunplugged

–Deborah LeBlanc

Last week—-or was it the week before? Hell, I’ve lost track of so many days it’s ridiculous….I handed in a manuscript that was without a doubt the biggest piece of shit I’ve ever written. No, no, I’m not defaming the book to garner sympathy or pats on the shoulder along with, “I’m sure it’s fine, Deborah. All writers think their work is inferior from time to time.”

Inferior? Okay, if you consider gangrene inferior to a paper-cut, then I suppose you could be right. But I’m sticking with the ‘piece of shit’ leitmotif.

Now you’re probably wondering why the hell I’m bashing one of my own books. Well, I’ll tell ya. As a writer, I can damn near convince myself of anything when it comes to words I’ve put on a page. Hey, this looks pretty good. Hell, this is great! Not bad. Nah, better change that. The problem is when I’m finished with a book, I don’t look at those words as a writer…I look at them as a reader, and this reader is ready and willing to state in no uncertain terms…”The book you’ve just handed in, Deborah, is unequivocally….a piece of shit. Continuity in the storyline is there but bare, and the resolution…well, in a word—sucks.”

Okay, now that I’ve gotten my point across,….and just in case you’ve somehow missed the point, I’ll reiterate….the book I just handed in to my publisher is a piece of shit…I’ll fill you on the rest of the story.

I’d actually completed this particular book over a month and a half ago, which was still past deadline, but not obscenely so. In fact, I thought the book was pretty decent considering I’d written it while ending a marriage—then had to rewrite it after my computer (the one that contained the book, of course) was tossed out a window, then run over by a truck—also had to stop mid-book to bury an employee who’d died in a car accident—then help find a home for the two kids she’d left behind because her local relatives didn’t want them and dads were unknown—and—oh, yeah…catching pneumonia somewhere in the middle of all that hoohah.

Anyway, I was preparing to send in said ‘decent’ book when I received its cover copy for review. After looking it over, I made a few suggestions, one of which incorporated the age of the twin protagonists (14 year olds), then sent it back. I received a response within minutes stating that due to some of the graphic and intense scenes in the book, the twins needed to be older, at least 16….and could I please make that change and send the book over asap.

I must have stared at that note for five minutes without blinking. Please make that change? Send the book over asap? Uh…I don’t think so. Two years may not seem like a lot when it comes to age, but anyone with kids, especially teen girls, knows there’s a HUGE difference between fourteen and sixteen-year-old girls!

When I finally got my brain unlocked, I shot back a note that basically said the change would cause a major rewrite. Sixteen year olds are harder, brassier, which meant I’d have to change the rhythm of their dialogue, the way they interacted with other characters, their motivation, etc. The point was taken, but the stance adamantly maintained. The girls HAD to be sixteen years old. This meant I now had about twenty days to rewrite the entire book so it could make the printers on time. Impossible, friggin’ impossible.

I jumped into the rewrite like a mad woman, literally writing twenty hours a day. Halfway to the finish line I knew there was no way I was going to make it happen. I could already see shit floating up in the storyline. Not only was this break-neck writing pace causing the book to suffer, the very premise of the story was changing because the characters’ motivation had changed. (Like that was a big surprise!) It didn’t even feel like the same story. The madness had to stop.

I called my agent, told her the book was turning into a serious piece of shit and wanted it pulled from the lineup.

Long story, shortened…after a dozen phone calls and twice as many emails, I was told if the book was pulled at this point, a ton of money would be lost. They wanted, had to have the book, piece of shit or not. My reaction? #_*$)@_(%*_%(&

During the last four days of that marathon, I slept a total of six hours, and that’s no exaggeration. But they got the book, just like they wanted, and now nobody will lose a ton….except me.

After catching up on desperately needed sleep, I made the mistake of reviewing the manuscript. I wanted to vomit. This horrid, mountainous piece of shit with my name on it was going to be in bookstores throughout the country. It’s hard enough building a name in this business, much less a name that people associate with decent storytelling. Now, when readers get hold of this masterpiece, they’ll associate my name with something all right….shit.

While trying to console myself, which has yet to happen by the way, I remembered an interview I’d read once that showcased Dean Koontz. In the interview, Koontz stated how he wished he hadn’t been talked into writing PHANTOMS. He detested the book. I couldn’t understand why he’d say such a thing. I’d read PHANTOMS, and, although I didn’t think it his best work, I enjoyed the story. As I mulled over that interview, I got to thinkin’….

Hmm, ya know, maybe Koontz considered PHANTOMS a royal piece of shit, and that’s why he regrets letting it leave his desk. And if he can release what he considers to be so much poop and survive in this business, then maybe there’s hope for….

Pffft, yeah right. Who was I trying to kid? Even if Koontz did write crap, it’d be such well written crap that the smell would be about as signicant as a mouse fart in a windstorm. Me on the other hand…we’re talkin’ elephants shitting in a goddamn closet.

I guess it’s about livin’ and learnin’, my friends. Just livin’ and learnin’.