When I get ready to deliver (sounds like a baby, right?) I tell my editor in advance.  I try to give her a couple of weeks notice, because she’s busy and I don’t want to startle her with a 385 page book on a random Tuesday.   So a couple of weeks ago, I gave my editor a delivery date.  April 26.

Novels are big.  There’s no way around it.  Delivering a novel is not like showing someone your 14 line love poem.  Reading a novel requires setting aside some time.  In fact, I’m setting aside a whole week to read my own book, before delivering.  It will take me the week to read it carefully–and I already know what happens.

As I read, I try to catch little glitches, cut extra words, and improve sentences where ever I can.  For this reason I always do my final read through on paper.  I believe you can see infelicities on paper that you’d miss on the screen.   Reading on paper is particularly good for continuity.  Screen-pages scroll one to the next in a confusing loop.  On paper, you stop and say–wait a second–let me look again at the shape of this chapter, or the strength of this transition.  You can also catch blank pages, widows, or orphan text in a way you can’t on screen.

On paper I can mark up my text in pen.   I print single sided, in case I need to add paragraphs on the back of a page.  I write in the margins and generally get messy in a way I can’t on screen.  Track changes just can’t capture this kind of hand written work.  Maybe someday the technology will get there, but right now, track changes are clunky.  They are simply typed text in a different color awkwardly spliced.

My draft is in good shape now.  I’m not adding new chapters at this point, or moving sections around.  In the past months, I’ve read the book twice for pacing and continuity.  My goal this week is to read and mark and input corrections at a medium pace–about 100 pages a day.  On Friday I’ll email the whole thing to my editor on my self-imposed deadline.  I’m excited!

Now that I’m getting ready to send in my second draft, I feel I can take a breath and pick up the thread here!  I hope to return to posting once a week.

Do you remember those old “Prince Valiant” cartoons in the Sunday newspaper?  They’d always start with a panel called Our Story, because nobody could keep track of the plot.  Well, it’s been a while, so I feel like I should catch you up.

Where I left off here, I’d just received comments from my editor on my first draft.  As usual, these sparked new ideas, and I set out to revise and rewrite.  I spent about eight months revising, which is typical for me, and now I’m getting ready for my final read through of the book.

Readers often ask me how long it takes to write a book and how much I revise.  Every writer is different, but here’s my general schedule:

1. I spend about a year figuring out what I’m doing.  This involves a lot of writing and thinking.

2. I spend about nine months writing the first draft.

3. After my editor reads it, I think about her comments for a few weeks, and then plunge into revision.  I’ll revise for six months to a year.

4. I send her the new draft and we work together, exchanging the manuscript.  She generally marks it up on paper, which I find WAY better than track changes in Word.  This goes on for a couple of months, until we agree the book is ready for the copy editor.

This point in the process is a happy one for me, because I’ve done the hardest work.  There may be places to develop or clarify, but I’ve shaped the book.  I’ve said what I wanted to say.   If my book were a bridge, I’d say that now I’ve built it all the way to the other side.  If my book were a building, this is where I’d hoist the flag.

I have not forgotten you. I’m just working soooo hard on my new book right now. I have no words left. As soon as I send in my revised draft, I will return here . . .

Your novelist,
Allegra

I’m fascinated by great artists who take their time between projects.  There are amazing musicians who do NOT perform hundreds of concerts a year.  Brilliant writers with five year gaps between books.  Painters who produce a small body of work.  One explanation for the gaps is that the artist is waiting–and waiting and waiting for inspiration to strike.  Another is that the artist is sick / depressed / stressed / distracted / addicted / blocked.  A third explanation is both more powerful and more mundane: the artist is working, developing  a project instead of moving on to the next new thing.

For me, time to develop a project is the greatest luxury.  It’s a gift to revise and in some cases re-imagine elements of a book.  I can add new colors, and follow promising ideas where they lead.  Revision can mean the difference between a tree-ripened book, and hard green fruit.

Readers often ask me–how do you know when your work is done?  How do you know when to stop revising?  You can definitely over-think and over-revise.  You can fuss until your book turns mushy.  How do you know when to stop?   Revision works best when you have a powerful vision of what you want.  As in life, you have to maintain a strong sense of what you were looking for in the first place.   As if in life, this is easier said than done!

However, I find revision to be the most interesting part of the writing process.  The delving in, the testing and retesting, the sheer imaginative effort, the problem solving fascinate me.  It’s true that sometimes your first instinct and your first idea are best.  But often, your second and third ideas are better.  I love the chance to add those layers, to delve deeper, and think harder.  When I finish this work, I’ll send the new draft to my editor.  I can’t wait!

This is the second in a series of posts on the publication process.  I’m following the progress of my new novel, Arcadia, in its metamorphosis from manuscript to book.

After delivering a complete draft, I wait for my editor to comment. I’m lucky that my editor reads fast, so I don’t wait too long.  In this case, my editor and agent both finished my book over the Labor Day weekend.  I talked to both about their impressions.  When I talk to my editor, I take notes, and I’m careful to write down all her questions.  I’ve already done quite a bit of revision on my own, but now I’ll be revising with her queries in mind.

Even more important than our phone conversation will be the memo my editor writes me.  I like a written response because by its nature, a letter requires my editor to articulate, prioritize, and develop each point in a way that free flowing conversation does not.  This is our fifth book together, so we know each other well.  We trust and respect each other.  As in every editorial relationship there’s give and take.  I tend to agree with most points–although not all.   We talk about character development, back story, drama, pacing, all the elements of a narrative.

After I receive my editor’s memo and think hard about it, I will start revising.   When I finish my revision, I’ll send her the new draft, and then we will generally repeat the process for a second revision together!   Judging from past books, this process will take several months.  Only when we’re both satisfied, will the book will move on to the copy editor.

What I enjoy about working with my editor is the chance to discuss my work as it develops.   When I finish a draft, I trade solitude for dialog with an astute reader.

I get a lot of questions about how a book gets published–especially in this time of instant printing.   How long does it take?  What is the editorial process like?   Why is there a lag between turning in a book and seeing it in stores or on an electronic reader?  I’ve decided to post a series of notes to answer these questions.  I’ll be following my new novel, Arcadia, as it makes its way to press this year.

So the first step in publication is delivery of a complete manuscript.   In the old days, I’d print out my book and box up a couple of copies.  I’d shlep these to the Fed Ex store in Harvard Square and mail them to my agent and my editor in New York.   These days, I deliver my book electronically, attaching the doc to an email.   Email means it’s easy to send simultaneously to my editor and agent.  They can download the draft and read it electronically, or print it out and read on paper.  Often their assistants will read along with them.

Delivery methods have changed, but I still get butterflies!  I’ll be sending in Arcadia on Friday.  After that I’ll wait for my editor’s notes.  What will she say?  How long will I have to revise?  Watch this space . . .

You don’t need a lot of equipment to become a writer.    Think of those art forms that require so many tools and so much space.   Imagine the logistics necessary if your art involves casting bronze, or blowing glass, or painting a model, or filming on a busy city street, or taking ballet class every day, or cutting reeds for an oboe.  A writer needs pen and paper and peace of mind.  That’s it.   Like walking, writing is a low threshold activity.  Anybody can start.  That doesn’t mean you’ll finish.  That doesn’t mean your work will be interesting to others.  But it’s cheap to begin.

Cheap, but not free.  There’s still a threshold for writing.  You need peace of mind–and this is sometimes difficult to achieve.  Like meditation, writing requires a certain inner peace.   It’s hard to write when you’re rushing around so fast that you don’t have time to think.  It’s hard to write when you’re overcome with anxiety or when you’re feeling obsessed by your to do list or when you can’t stop playing with your phone.   Sometimes the simplest activities are the most elusive.   You’re busy doing so many things that you get exhausted and you have nothing left to put on the page.  Writing lies in that strange area between doing and being.   You want to be peaceful, but you don’t want to be empty.

Write when you can remove yourself just a little from the demands of your life.   Allow yourself time to warm up.  Don’t expect yourself to jump in cold.  Inspiration does not always flow like running water.   Sometimes you have to walk for an hour to get to the spring, and then you have to fill your water jugs, one at a time.  Other times, you have to take a divining rod and spend days walking the land, looking for a place to dig a well.   Enjoy that walk and the time it takes.   Focus on getting the little things right.  Take pleasure in a good sentence.  Quiet your mind.

Of the three, peace of mind is by far the most important.

When you’re baking, you can smell when a batch of cookies turns golden brown and crispy.  When you’re inflating tires, you use a gauge.  But when you’re writing, how do you know when you’re done?   Sometimes you think you’ve finished your work, but in fact, you’re just exhausted.  At other times, you keep fussing and run the danger of overwriting.   How can you tell when your novel is golden brown?

The quick and easy answer is experience.  Over time writers begin to understand the natural shape of their story and they learn to guard against rushing or fussing.  But that’s just the easy answer and doesn’t tell you much.  It’s like saying–you’ll know when you get there.  Or, when you grow up, you’ll find out.

Let’s probe a little deeper.   If you’re writing along and you want to know whether you’re done, ask yourself–what was I trying to say?   In other words, when you feel you’ve reached the end, go back to the beginning–your motivation for penning that short story, that essay, that poem, that long book.   What sparked this project?  Was it a thesis you wanted to argue?  A question you hoped to explore?  A mood you wanted to convey?  A story you wanted to tell?  Think about that spark and ask yourself–have I done what I set out to do?  Did I support my thesis?  Address my question?  Express that mood?  Did I tell my story?  Follow my characters on their journey?  If the answer is yes–ask yourself another question–did I do justice to my original intent?  Is this argument or character or mood well developed?  Do I explore this situation in all its complexity?  Have I done everything in my power to say what I wanted to say?   If the answer is no, then go back and keep working until the answer is yes.

If you have done everything you could to realize your intent–then do one more thing.  Set aside your work for at least a week.  Then go back and look at your writing sentence by sentence and throw everything extraneous away.

When you’ve finished all of that, you’re done.  You’re ready to submit or show your work.  You may hear criticism, and you may experience rejection, but you’ll know that you’ve done what you set out to do.  You’ve said what you had to say.

What’s it like to write a novel?  Sometimes it’s like living with a 1000 piece jig saw puzzle in the middle of the dining room table.  You keep working at it, but every once in a while a piece or two falls onto the floor, or someone buries your puzzle with “”The New York Times”  or you have to move the puzzle because you’re having all your relatives over for dinner.  Carefully you try to slide your puzzle onto a flat surface to move it, but you start to panic as the whole thing starts to buckle.  Inevitably you have to make some repairs.  As you make progress, though, the picture becomes clearer, and you find yourself drawn to the puzzle more and more.   It’s easier to fit the pieces, because there are fewer to choose from.   You start closing the door to the dining room so that you can finish in a few marathon sessions.  Back at the beginning, you’d welcomed distractions.  Now all you want is to sit alone with your puzzle working the whole thing out.  You forget the time.  You forget to look at the picture on the box.  In fact, you lost the box a long time ago.  You are working from the picture in your mind.

I watched a bit of the Boston Marathon on Monday, and thought of the old analogy between novels and long distance running.   Like a marathoner, a novelist has to set a good pace–not too fast or you’ll burn out before the end.  Not too slow, or you’ll never finish.  Like a marathoner, a novelist has to train and build up to longer writing stints.   It takes time to hit your stride with a book–or any creative project.   A novel is like a marathon with its own obstacles and difficulties.  There may be times when you hit a wall, times when you struggle to run up a hill, even times when you feel like you can’t go on.   There are also times when writing comes easily.  You’ve got your rhythm, you feel the wind at your back, and the views are beautiful.

There are also huge differences between marathon running and novel writing.  The marathoner follows a set course.  The novelist has to make up a course.  The marathoner knows the distance she’ll run.  The novelist has to make that up too.  The marathoner confronts hills and valleys, good and bad weather.  The novelist writes hills and valleys and decides her own weather.  The marathoner runs her own race.  The novelist runs her own race and sets the pace for readers too.

As I write, I like to imagine my readers running with me.  Some run fast; some take it slow.  Some run in packs.  Some run alone.  As we round the bend, we see the finish line and pick up our heels.  I’m tired, but I’ve been looking forward to this moment for years.  I’ve planned this last stretch ever since I came out to this place and mapped the course.  I can’t wait to finish, and at the same time I want to keep running.  This is my favorite time–closing the distance.