Sit down. No, you’re not in trouble. This isn’t about dangling too many participles or ending sentences with prepositions. It’s not about your premise or your plot. It’s not about your characters (they’re all really very lovely). And it’s not about your craft.
You want what? A drink? Sure. What would you like? I have tea and coffee and…
Really? This early? How about just the orange juice without the vodka?
Okay, where was I? Oh, right. You’re a good writer. Your novel is competent, smart and entertaining. You’ve obviously read lots of books on how to write. I bet you read all the really popular agent and editor blogs, too.
But…
Hmm? Yes, you can move to the couch if you want. No, I don’t have any Xanax.
Like I was saying, your novel is good, but it’s missing something.
Yes, I know, I know. You’ve labored on this for months. You’ve poured every available minute into the writing and the re-writing. Your husband thinks you’re having an affair with someone named Strunk N. White. Your kids are wondering what a “crit group” is and where to find one and do they really need more feedback on their two-paragraph “what I did last summer” essays anyway? And your dog, Pulitzer, is afraid to ask to go for a walk because, apparently, his whimper sounds excessively adverbial and this causes you to scowl like Stephen King and it makes him nervous when you scowl like Stephen King.
No, you haven’t wasted your time. All that study has paid off. Surely you can see how you’ve improved. And if not? Go back and look at the first story you ever wrote. You’ve come a long way. I’m impressed. You should be, too.
But your novel is still missing something. Something really important.
It’s missing you.
You’re looking rather pale. Maybe you should lie down.
Let me say again – you’re a good writer. I’ve seen manuscripts from contracted novelists that aren’t as well-written as yours.
Good. You’re getting some color back. You were making me nervous there for a moment. I’m not trained in CPR.
It’s quite possible that your novel is good enough to capture the interest of a good literary agent. And maybe even good enough to get published someday. Of course, that could take a while. You know how tough it is for writers to break through. Of course you do, that’s why you’ve been so diligent at the craft and so dedicated to learning the business.
Maybe persistence and patience are all you need at this point.
But I can’t help wondering about that “missing something.” Where are you in your novel? Where’s the smart, slightly snarky writer whose email correspondence always makes me smile? Where’s the clever wordplay? The knowing smile? The arresting blend of confidence and vulnerability that I think of every time I think of you?
All that great writing advice might have kept you off the page. I like you. I like the way you think. I think readers would like you, too. And if you found you – if your novel had more of you in it – I believe that might just bump your manuscript from the “good enough to be published” pile into the “wow, I love this!” pile on an agent’s desk.
Ah, yes, that’s the million dollar question. And there’s no easy answer. I’d suggest these three steps:
- Let the manuscript sit. Don’t obsess over it. Forget about it and do something else for a while.
- Stop reading “how to write” books and websites. Instead, read novels. Good ones by authors you admire. Fresh ones by authors you’ve never met.
- When you finally do go back to your manuscript, forget the rules. Just (re)write as you hear the story in your head. You already know craft – that will come naturally now. This time, listen to your inner voice, follow it. Trust your instincts with word choice, pacing, rhythm, attitude. And here’s the real key: have fun.
Be you.
That’s not as easy as it sounds. And if you find you’re still struggling, start another novel. Yes. From the beginning. The more you write, the sooner you’ll find yourself on the page. When you do, you’ll not only be “good enough to be published” – you’ll be the only person who writes like you.
That’s the book I really want to read.
Yours.
Yes, you can have the vodka now.
Comments
19 responses to “You”
excellent advice – i was very lucky with my book, i wasn’t far into it when a twitter friend said “i hope it’s snarky and funny, like you are.’ I was struck by her words, because it wasn’t. 🙂 I worked on that aspect – now it’s much more me.
I think a writer’s personality can be revealed in many different ways in her writing. Maybe the narrator’s voice is snarky and funny. Or maybe one of the characters is snarky and funny. But even if neither of those is true, your snarky and funny personality should be allowed to inform things like word choice and pacing and tone. Otherwise, it might as well be someone else’s book.
Shit. Are you talking about me? Give me that vodka.
All of my posts are actually about me. Some days I even think that song is about me, don’t I, don’t I?
In an effort to be me, which enjoys brevity: cool!
In an effort to channel you, thanks.
Great post. I’m guessing any writer who reads this and has corresponded with you will wonder if you’re talking to him/her. (And you probably are.) That’s my favorite quality in an author, by the way — that feeling that he’s talking directly to me, reading my mind, or stole my journal. Also, I really love this: “Trust your instincts with word choice, pacing, rhythm, attitude. And here’s the real key: have fun.”
Actually, I DID steal your journal. Is all that stuff in there true? Wow. You should write more fiction.
This is really an amazing advice. I’ve read so many “how ti write” books, all of them concerns about ideas, plot, characterization, and the like. But none has ever told me to “just be me”.
I think I’ll try to relax a bit when I write now. Let the words flow and see what I got.
Oh, and thanks for the vodka.
You’re welcome for the advice. But I’ll have to deny having given you vodka if questioned by federal authorities since I don’t have a liquor license.
brilliant advice.
and here’s me thinking i was the only one who thought a lot of the writers i’ve met are Far Too Serious.
i have, evidently, been hanging with the wrong crowd.
and since you’re pouring, i’d prefer some cheap red wine…;)
Some writers are Far Too Serious. But in order to be a member of that club, you have to pass a series of rigorous tests that include reciting a hundred pages of Proust and writing a dozen footnotes for Jane Austin’s “Emma” in the style of David Foster Wallace.
Very cleverly done. You’ll have warmed vulnerable, sometimes confident, hearts all over the nation. And good advice too. The best, infact. It might even be enough to help this struggling writer who is so bored by her current book that she actually forgot she was writing it.
I sometimes forget I’m writing, too. It happens a lot. Like this one time, I was
Got this link from a norwegian blog, and this is the first post I am reading of you. Sorry my bad english, but this was great reading. You caught med from the first sentence and suddenly I was finished.
Looking forward to read your other bloggpost, from earlier times.
So glad you crossed the ocean to visit. And no need to apologize for your english. I understood every word. I can’t say the same for notes I write to myself in the middle of the night.
You know: where’s the Passion?! I’d settle for a few wrong word choices, some adverbs, dialogue tags . . . just make feel something! If I wanted to read a manual, I’d buy one.
(Um make “me” feel something! Please. Do you think leaving “me” out means something? Like Freud-ish?)
I actually DID think you were talking about me. Then I remembered I’ve never written a book. Or even tried to write a book. Or sent you anything to edit (that I had written). Guess I really did think that song was about me.