Sometimes it feels like I am a broken record, saying the same thing over and over again. Not too long ago (and no, I’m not going to bother looking it up), I mentioned something about the book I’ve been working on since the beginning of the Pandemic and how I had decided to scrap it and start over again. Which I did. Sort of. Unfortunately, the reality of it was I decided to structure the book differently and try to winnow it down to something more manageable than the 900 pages it turned out to be.
What my second run at the book turned out to be was just copy and pasting my favorite chunks into a slightly more streamlined version. But when I was doing this, I was split between, “Oh, this needs to be here, and this relies on that,” because everything was being sampled out of events that had really happened. It wasn’t a novel, it was a documentary. And worse than that, it was tattling.
I kept thinking of all the different kinds of books I’ve read throughout my life. Up at the top were books like The Wheel of Time, or A Song of Ice and Fire, or the Gunslinger series. These bloated volumes of detail burdened tomes that run around 600 pages per book and stretch on until the author finally dies. You’ve got empires of generational wealth that have stemmed from books like this. From Frank Herbert to Tolkien. And as much shit as JK Rowling has taken in recent years for DEAR MOTHER OF GOD! having a personal opinion of things (how fucking dare she! Her only function in life is to create a whimsical wonderland of child wizards and escapist books that read like everyone’s playground adventures with better dialog and backstory), she is still the absolute wealthiest author in history.
As awesome as it would be to write a book everyone wants to read and making a killing on it, I have to take a different tack on things. People barely read this blog. I made maybe $200 on my first novel. Nobody listens to my podcast, and I have 22 subscribers on my YouTube channel. I have had good opportunities writing articles for magazines, content for clients, and I love interviewing people for stories, even if editors ghost me and the story never gets any traction.
But it’s not about my journalism or content creation. Which I love. Don’t get me wrong.
First of all, I cannot go into writing a book thinking I’m going to get wealthy on it. I have to completely obliterate that notion. If I had to take a samurai approach towards it, I have to have the attitude that I am already dead. I have to write like nobody is going to read it. I cannot write it to be a people pleaser and I sure as hell can’t write it for sympathy.
Second, I’ve been reading a lot of books that don’t rely on endless, Shaharazade-type story telling, almost as though if the author continues to make shit up, they won’t ever die. Momento mori, my writerly friends. Those books are a paycheck. Robert Jordan probably wrote his 14 volume series (he got in 11 or 12 before amyloidosis got him) because it kept him in cancer treatments. The story stopped being interesting after book 4.
Some of the best books I have read lately have been one-offs. I don’t know where we got the idea we have limited shelfspace to tell a story that would bore a few people at a party, much less captivate an audience enough to actually review a book. Books like Blood Meridian, the Great Gatsby, The Old Man and the Sea, Unbroken, so many classics and genuinely good books that continue to be on shelves long after the craze for bisexual werewolves has run its course. Those books actually teach you how a master of their craft knows exactly how to break the rules.
Moving Forward
I would much rather be considered Interesting than Handsome. I think the bestseller books and mass market and books that get made into a Netflix series are Handsome/Hot. This story has life, this story has redemption, pain, and I want others to be able to see themselves in it. And I want to be able to tell the story in under 400 pages.
The Muse that told me to write this book tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Not quite. Try again.”
Let’s be honest, part of the reason I think the first draft of my books sucks is because it is just a bunch of tattling. Much of it was about the tribulations of an abusive marriage. Maybe I wanted vindication. Maybe I wanted sympathy. The second draft was an inability to kill my darlings. I just made a Cliff’s Notes version of that book. And as I read through, I remembered it as being much better than what it was. I was essentially picking through rags.
The story isn’t about revenge. It’s not about justice. In the last ten years, I have had a lot of time for introspection. I’ve run the gauntlet of Cognitive Processing Therapy, failed post-divorce relationships, loss, heartbreak, and survived a goddamn global pandemic. If anything, I know what the story is about now. I’m far enough away from it to understand. To a drowning man, all he can think of is sinking below the surface, and falling deeper and deeper into that darkness. When you make it to shore, there’s another world past that.
This book isn’t about drowning. It’s about surviving drowning. Yes, it’s about heartbreak and loss and fear, but it’s also about healing and moving on. And beyond that, it’s about having the courage to get back in the fucking water.
So, I decided something big the other day. I’m rewriting the book. Without going back to look at the previous versions. I have grown as a writer in the last four years and I want to do it with a clearer voice and a steadier hand. I don’t know what the book is just yet, but there’s a feeling I have, like walking into a dark room and knowing where your furniture is. Somehow you understand the shape of it and how to get around. You just know when it feels right.
I’m not here to write eBooks to sell for $3 a pop. I’m here to put flesh and bones together that can become a home for a spirit. I don’t give a fuck if anyone reads it. That’s not why I’m doing it. And I really don’t care if someone says “Don’t rewrite the whole thing!!”
That’s what I have to do. I can’t take shortcuts. I can’t be lazy about it.