I have nearly reached the end of the line-editing process for GROUNDED. The school play is over, the school year is winding down, and my body is fatigued; I’m sick and gross, and have to knock out the rest of these edits from bed.
But I’ll knock ’em out. They’ll be turned in on time, and I’ll even be mostly satisfied with them.
My growing belief that I can do my job as a writer is a very big deal, to me. I’m still insecure about other things, like whether or not readers will like my work – I’ll probably always worry about that, because it’s outside my control. But the part that’s within my control – the part where I write the words, and write them again, and revise and rewrite them until they pass muster – I believe I can do that now.
Ten years ago, I didn’t. I knew I was capable of one thing: writing a draft. In my hubris, however, I didn’t realize it was a draft; I thought it was already a super amazing book. The first editorial conversation I ever had was the one in which I learned that I had only written a draft, and that while it had some good ideas, it needed a complete overhaul in order to make those ideas shine.
I realize now just how fortunate I was to get so much intelligent critical feedback on that draft. But at the time, I could not feel that way. I walked away from that conversation embarrassed and disappointed, believing I wasn’t a writer after all, and I didn’t attempt any of the revisions that had been suggested.
At the time, I believed that I had stopped writing because I was afraid of further criticism. Further rejection. Looking back, I can see that wasn’t really the problem. It wasn’t rejection I feared – it was my own perceived lack of ability. The real reason I didn’t jump right into revising that draft was that I didn’t believe I could. I had no confidence in my ability to make it a better book. I knew how to write, not how to write again.
Of course, as it turns out, writing is writing again.
It was only years later, when I finally grew up and threw myself at that draft like a linebacker that I began to gain confidence in my ability to revise. The first round of revisions was hard. Very hard. It took years.
The second revision began in August of 2012, after I submitted the manuscript to my now-editor, who said, essentially, I like this. I’m interested in working on this. Cut 50-100 pages.
I didn’t know how I was going to cut that many pages. But I was so close to realizing a dream and so determined to do what she was asking that I didn’t crumple at the request. Also, I had already revised it once. I knew I could probably do it again. So I tackled it, and I was able to cut 45 pages. My editor then asked me to change the first chapter of the story, which I had seen clearly in my head for years. I struggled. I grappled. And I made the changes.
Then my editor wrote me a lengthy editorial letter, which took me four months to address. (Four months. Not four years. Big improvement.) I addressed it, because I was under contract, and because it was my job – and because I believed that I probably could. After all, I’d done it before, and more than once.
Now I’m almost done with another long round. When I opened the line-edited document and saw that my manuscript had transformed one giant, colorful salute to Track Changes, I spent a few minutes in the grip of my old fears. My editor is intense, and there were literally thousands of suggestions and edits for me to address. Oh no, cried the old fears, I’m not clever enough, I can’t write well enough, I don’t know all the answers, I’ll never be able to solve all of this in six weeks.
But that voice was no longer singing solo. There was a new voice in there too, and the new voice was louder. You’ve done this repeatedly, said the new voice. You know how to do this. One sentence at a time. The ideas will come. The words will get sharper. Just go.
It’s the same lesson I’ve had to learn many times: I don’t get better at things by hiding away and wishing I were better, or by waiting for some great wisdom to come to me. I get better at things by doing them.
Why is it that the simplest lessons take the longest to learn?
A little over a week ago, my brother got married in Hawaii, on the island of Kauai, at Shipwreck Beach. It was a beautiful wedding, and a glorious vacation. I had never been to Hawaii before. I happily gave over to the slower flow of time that the islands seem to possess. I didn’t write a single word. Instead, I played with my son in the pool, and watched him go down the water slide and make new friends, and I took him into the ocean for the first time. For me, having grown up a beach-dweller, this was a meaningful first. Watching him shriek and try to outrun the surf was just gorgeous. He’s so young that he’ll probably forget it, but I won’t.
As I read Tara Dairman’s delicious ALL FOUR STARS, my mouth watered. I longed to eat all the delightful desserts described therein. What better way to celebrate Tara’s delectable debut than to eat something scrumptious? And what better way to honor the indefatigable Gladys Gatsby than to invent a dessert?
