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Chart #3: An Online Journal

They Call It the First Draft for a Reason - April 5, 2006

It’s no easy feat to write a novel.

Think about it. How many people do you know who’ve written one all the way through? Of course there are thousands upon thousands of books in your typical Barnes & Noble, but how many of those people do you personally know? If you’re like me, not many. Because it’s hard.

I remember the day I finished my first novel. I was 23 years old. The manuscript was called The Dead Men (which seemed to me like a fantastic title) and I was so proud of myself that I took a picture to commemorate the moment. I was sure I had written a thriller that would sell for a lot of money and turn me into a full-time writer. After a little editing work on the ms. (which took me about a week) I queried a few agents.

Some aspiring writers are afraid to show their work to others because they fear it’s not any good. But other young authors are blinded by their own finished product.

Lo and behold, the very first agent I contacted asked to see the full manuscript. I have a picture of me holding his letter. But he didn’t like the ms. well enough to represent it, and neither did any of the other agents I queried. So I sat down and took an honest look at my story and decided it was terrible.

Sure, the premise had potential, but what I had written was a chase novel with one-dimensional, stereotypical characters, a story that had virtually nothing to say and was missing the credible details that persuade readers to suspend their disbelief. The manuscript was bogged down by overwritten passages and exaggerated situations and a lot of hyperbolic dialogue.

So I sat down and wrote the novel again, sure that I had learned enough from the process to write a salable version this time around. But the only progress I made was to accumulate more rejections.

In fact I have ten drafts of that story. None of them sold.

Some aspiring writers are afraid to show their work to others because they fear it’s not any good. But other young authors are blinded by their own finished product. They are so proud of the completed manuscript that they print it at Kinko’s and have it bound with tape or coils and pass it around to everyone they know. What do you think? we ask. And are inevitably rewarded with this answer: It’s good. I liked it.

I liked it. This is a friend’s way of saying that he managed to finish it. Because let’s be honest—your friend wants to like it. He is dying to tell you how good it is. If he doesn’t tell you that, the chances are good that he didn’t really enjoy it that much. And however much he liked it or didn’t like it, your friend probably isn’t very good at explaining what worked or didn’t work in the first place.

So how do you know? Especially if the agents you query don’t provide any feedback, how do you know if you’re on the right track?

I guess the only thing you can do is try to be as objective as you can possibly be about your own work. Which is hard when you are predisposed to either loving or hating what you write. I’m not sure I know many authors who are indifferent about their artistic endeavors.

But why do I think you should never be too proud of your own work? Because Rift, the book I wrote after The Dead Men, went through eight rewrites before it sold, and another one after that. The changes that were made in drafts seven, eight, and nine were because of ideas offered by my agent and editor. Those ideas made the book far better. There is simply no underestimating how collaborative the writing process can be for most of us authors who sell less than a million copies per book. And even those who do sell in the millions ought to be willing to take advice. I’m sure some of these authors with complete creative control spoil their talent late in life because they’re hardly edited anymore.

I could be wrong about this, but for most of us, no matter how good you think your finished product is, it’s almost surely worse than you think. An editor or agent may want to cut your favorite line in the book. They may want you take the book in a completely different direction. Only by being impossibly tough on yourself can you make the decisions that will ultimately turn you into the best writer you can be.

That’s my take, anyway. Comments welcomehere.

Take care,
Richard

Other journal entries:
February 16 : : February 23 : : March 2: : March 9: : March 16: : March 23: : April 11: : April 20: : April 28: : May 9 : : May 25 : : June 13: : July 6 : : July 25: : August 27