What's the Hurry?...Part Two

Last time we talked (and talked and talked and talked--hey, I've already told you it takes me 10,000 words to say "hello") about hurrying work to publication before it's ready. About what makes us want to do that silly thing. And a little bit about how not to do that silly thing.

This time around, we're going to talk about developing patience.
Right now.

(Sorry, I couldn't resist.) (Ahem.)

Developing enough patience to hold onto a work until it's truly ready to go out into the big bad world by itself isn't an easy thing. We've all been stung by the impulse to send something out too soon: we burst through to the end of a manuscript, we're exhilarated, and we craft a query letter and stick that puppy in an envelope...

...only to discover a few hours later that we left a massively unfinished sentence unfinished because we were going to "get to it later"...
...or we called a character by the wrong name on p. 212...
...or there's a big ol' embarrassing bunch of telling rather than showing that we could have done much better on the next draft...
...or sometimes something even more egregious.

Now, to a non-writer, some of this stuff may sound silly. Who cares if you mistakenly called your character by the wrong name three-quarters of a way through a manuscript? Or who cares if you've got telling rather than showing? Well, for one person, an editor cares. If you've sent something out to an editor too soon, you've given her an easy reason to say "no." And that's one thing you definitely don't want to do.

But what about readers? If you're going direct to reader, can't some of this stuff be overlooked? Aren't readers willing to cut you more slack than one of those hated stuffy ol' gatekeepers?

Well, maybe. But why take the chance? Odds are that even non-writers will notice an unfinished sentence. Most of the time, even non-writers will notice a character being called by the wrong name--if for no other reason than that it stops them for a moment and makes them think, "Wait a minute. Isn't that so-and-so?" The unfinished sentence will stop them the same way.

That's precisely what you don't want to do to a reader. Every time a reader stops, she loses contact and identification with your characters for just that split second. Every time she stops because of something you did...you've stuck your figurative foot out and tripped her. Too many stumbles, and that reader won't want to stick around in your story--it's starting to leave bruises.

Which is why just about when most of us think we're "done" with a given book is actually the point at which the real work starts. That's when we do our editing. Our fierce quizzing of every little detail in the book to make sure it's right and it belongs. Our ruthless "murdering of the darlings" that most of the time is necessary, but that cannot--and may never--occur if we've published the material too soon.

Yes, some books can be freely revised and "tweaked" even after publication date. Some platforms allow for it, even make it easy.  This is great for those cases where books are letter-perfect when they leave your keyboard and have Gremlins attack in the meantime. In those cases, tweaking is not only OK but the only fair way to make sure your work is shown in its best light.

Any other time, however, it's a crutch. And if you're a writer worth your salt, you don't want to hobble through your career on crutches. That's where patience can be a miracle cure.

So how do you practice patience in your writing work?

1. Let it settle. We hinted at this earlier, and we've also mentioned it in other blog posts over the years. Typing "The End," in this case, is only the beginning. It's the signal for you to put your feet up, put the work aside, and give it time away from your eyes.  How long? Long enough so that when you come back to it, you aren't too close to it. A week's too short in most cases; some writers I've read recommend six months.  I'm somewhere in the middle. I think somewhere between three and six weeks is about ideal. They say we need three weeks of practicing a new behavior before it becomes a habit; three weeks, then, may be what your "system" needs to "clear out" the work in its present form so you can look at it fresh. The longer you can wait past three weeks, I believe, the better off your work will be in the end. And if you can do that six-months thing...you don't need this post. You're already patient!

2. Refill the well. Some folks will tell you to start another work right away, and there was a time when I would have been right on board that bus with them. I'll give you this much: if you've got another idea that's been pounding at the bars wanting to get out while you finished this one...you can certainly sketch out some new material. But if I were you, I'd resist the urge to immediately start plunging whole-hog into a "new" work. You need time to catch your creative breath, time to let new ideas percolate, and time enough away from the old writing routine, voice, characters, and other elements so that your "new" work actually sounds new--and not like Son Of Work You've Just Finished. We've all seen writers who have a "new" book that was clearly started when they were still enmeshed in the old one. The book might be good, but the odds are it'll be better if it's got its own space and time.

3. Have faith. This is actually the crux of the matter--the ability to rise above the vaguely (or not-so-vaguely) hysterical advice out there about "getting your name out." Yes, you want your work to become known; yes, you want to make money as an author, and to do that, people have to know you exist. But quantity at the expense of quality isn't an attribute most of us want attached to our names--and a writing career that starts out great and only gets better is worth the wait. Waiting, however, takes a degree of trust. It takes a degree--actually a whole bunch of degrees--of faith. And it takes enough humility and balance to understand that your opportunity will come along without your having to hurry it. 

Let me say that again, because it flies in the face of so much propaganda--and, let's face it, real-life experience. The essence of the patience you need not to "go off half-cocked" with work that's half-ready is trusting that opportunities are like buses: there's always another one coming. :-) 

Interestingly enough, in our present publishing climate, that's more true than it's ever been. In the days of having to submit stuff by paper, wait six months to a year to two years to hear anything back, and then do the whole process over again with every rejection, the idea that "my opportunity is just around the corner" could sometimes sound Pollyanna-ish, if not deluded. Time spent waiting didn't feel like productive time, and if you weren't careful, it wasn't. But now, with subsidy publishing, small presses, direct-to-reader, and all the permutations of the more "traditional" publishing model that are out there...you can pretty much bank on the fact that when your book is ready, you'll be able to publish it--one way or another.  You're not going to "lose your chance" forever if you don't hurry, or if you don't supply a market with X number of books in six months, or if you don't Get That Sequel Out Yesterday. Your readers will wait for quality; the market will reward quality, especially if you've given it to them from the very beginning and continue to do so.

But you cannot hope to provide consistent high quality without taking a decent amount of time over the product in the first place. Cutting corners, deciding you need to "show" the industry what "real writing" is, or any of the other chip-on-shoulder or hurry-the-bus-is-leaving behaviors in which you might be tempted to indulge aren't going to get you where you want to go. They're like the get-rich-quick schemes that are all over the place; you might have a flash of what you think is brilliance, even temporary success...but then it'll dry up as fast as it came in the first place. And if I know you as an author, that's not what you want. Flashes in the pan, apply elsewhere. Most of us want better than that.

So don't go there. Don't fall for the pressure, don't believe the hype and/or disaster scenarios, and above all...don't make yourself susceptible to "hurry sickness." Better one  book a year that's so over-the-top great you can hardly believe you wrote it yourself, than six mediocre or "good enough" products. Your brand is important; take the time, challenge yourself, and have the faith to make those products great, one at a time, with all the time they deserve.

There really, truly, is no hurry. Take your time, and you'll actually move toward your goals much more smoothly in the long run. And...you'll enjoy the trip!


Thoughts?
Janny

Thirty Years in the Carpenter’s Shop—Or, Hidden Preparation

Several of us have been thinking lately in terms of “breaking out” in our writing lives. No, not in poison ivy, although it is that season. But in terms of making some Big New Things Happen in our writing and our approach to same. As in, “This will be my breakout book.” Or, “It’s time I broke out of this rut.” Or, “Now that I’ve broken away from this genre…now what?” Some of us get a little panicky at this point, and with good reason (at least in our own minds). Many of us, after all, are of the Day Planner generation—if we’re not being productive (i.e. jumping right into the next book the moment we type THE END on this one), we’re wasting time, and we cannot afford to do this! We “owe” the world productivity for taking up space (!), and we owe our God the maximum output from the gifts we have. (Who can forget Erma Bombeck’s line, so frequently quoted, about hoping that she didn’t have a speck of talent left at the end of her life, because she used it all up? ‘Nuff said.) Some of us, however, get panicky for another reason entirely—the not totally unfounded fear that the writing and publishing world is passing us by. And not because we’re writing to a trend that’s going to be “so yesterday” by later this afternoon, but because we are surrounded by other writers who are selling, some of them at a rate that leaves us breathless. One particular writer I know has gone from getting her first contract last fall to being able to finish her e-mail signature with a list of three or four books already contracted, and another one pending. I get whiplash just thinking about it. When this kind of thing happens, I feel many other things, too. None of them good. I start out somewhere around “Ohmyword.” From there, I go quickly to “For Pete’s sake, leave some contracts for someone else,” and it’s only a short trip before I land somewhere in the skids of “Well, obviously, I missed the secret handshake meeting again.” (Otherwise known as the Slough of Writer Despond.) Now, putting aside for a moment whether I should be rejoicing for this woman (of course) and what’s keeping me from doing so (easy answer, tough problem to lick)…what’s putting me into said despond slough? The fact that I don’t have four books ready to go. To anyone. Anywhere. In any shape. And I won’t have that many ready to go for quite some time…especially since I’m doing some “breaking out” of my own. And there’s the rub. We who experience these jealousies, panics, and whiplashes are both forgetful of, and overly conscious of, the element of being prepared to move to that next step. Laying groundwork. Doing research. Learning new ways of approaching our art. Refilling the well. Tending to our spirits. Resting. Writing. Experimenting. Finding, perhaps, a new creative rhythm and voice. And we forget—or we want to deny—that all of that takes time. Why? In a word, because we’re scared we don’t have that time. The publishing world continually reinforces this notion of scarcity: not enough time, shrinking markets, diminishing opportunities for those who aren’t poised on the very edge of caffeine, ready to leap. Serendipity is amenable to dipping her hand into the magic dust and sprinkling it on us, but we gotta be out there for it to happen. Preparation work isn’t the work that gets us out there. It’s work that’s done within. In our own writers’ caves, if you will. But Serendipity doesn’t make cave calls, and we all know it. So we’re torn. We want that magic dust, and we want it to be the real thing, but we begrudge spending time in a fallow place while our Muse regroups herself. We don’t want to noodle around with six or eight or fifteen or twenty-three or fifty-seven ideas that don’t go anywhere; we want to get right to that magic #412 idea—the one that’s going to be The Book That Makes Our Name—as soon as possible, preferably yesterday, thank you very much, and while you’re at it, yes, I would like fries with that. And make it snappy. Too bad that’s not how craft really works. Success in the writing craft, as in most other areas, truly is a matter of “preparation meeting opportunity.” (And dumb luck, and the stars aligning, and the secret handshake, and…oh, wait. Never mind.) But we need to understand the true nature of “preparation” if we’re going to hit our own dose of magic dust. Preparation is dog work. It’s time-consuming. Sometimes, it’s frightening. Certainly, it’s unpaid. But it’s really, really necessary to take enough time to lay the right foundations. To make sure we’re working toward what our true place, our true voice, and our true niche in the craft is, not necessarily what all the “experts” tell us we “ought to” do. But it’s hidden work. And, at times, it can look like we’re doing “nothing” to get ourselves ahead. As a consequence, sometimes that outside world is going to ask us pointed questions. Or we're going to ask ourselves the pointed questions and worry because of what we think that world is thinking of us. But if we’re truly going to “break through,” we dare not try to shortcut the process. If we doubt this, all we have to do is look at the Lord and Master himself, who took thirty years to prepare for His “real” work. Think about that. Thirty years. How many of us have that kind of patience? That wasn’t thirty years of practice-preaching in pulpits, teaching VBS, or working in a soup kitchen, either—works that, had they existed, would have been good preparation for the life of itinerant preacher and healer. On the contrary; Jesus not only didn’t hang around the synagogue day and night and get labeled a “holy person,” but if anything, He did the opposite: He hung around Dad’s workshop and built tables and shelves and cabinets. Talk about a fallow period! And what happened when He finally left the woodworking tools behind and started calling fishermen? His own hometown pooh-poohed him for exactly the reason that we’re talking about: He was Mary and Joseph’s son, just a carpenter, nothing special. Who did He think He was? Well, of course, what mattered wasn’t what His hometown thought of Him. Or even what He thought He was. What mattered was what God His Father was preparing Him to be. And what He was preparing to be, and to do, was something no one else could do—something that gave life to all the rest of us. If that wasn’t a magnificent “breakout,” nothing was. We, too, can provide our own kind of “life” for people with the words we write. We, too, have the capability to tell stories we haven’t yet imagined. But we have to be willing to wait for them to come. To resist the temptation to jump out of the cave and try to do the Big Thing too fast, too soon, or in a way that isn’t true to the writer God made us to be. We have to be willing to sacrifice the good for the best, something that’s never easy…especially not in what seems to be an ever-more-competitive and ever-narrower world like writing and publishing. But if we can calm ourselves, yield that crazy world and our crazy craft to God and let Him handle it, I truly believe we have a much better chance of finding the wide, open road that we’re meant to walk and the niche we’re meant to fill. It’s a big challenge, but He’s up to if it we are. The question is, how “hidden” are you willing to be? How abandoned to what He wants you to do? If He were to tell you it was going to take thirty years to get you to where He wanted you to be as a writer, would you be willing and able to let Him take that time? Thoughts? Janny