(There is no) Golden Mean

               And so, brethren and sistren, down came I from the mountain bearing Truth and Beauty (or such Truth and Beauty as is to be found in my new book, The Patent Desk), fully intending to bestow this cultural gem, this magnificent gift upon a world waiting in eager anticipation of the glories to be found therein.

               There I stood at the last turn, the final promontory and I looked out over the assembled multitudes, drank in their eagerness and love…  And then I turned around and went back up to my cave to go through the damn thing One. More. Time.

                Kindly refrain from asking how many times I’ve repeated this cycle of there-I’m-done-here-it-goes-ready-set-wait-did-I-remember-to… I’ve done it enough times that I’d be embarrassed to admit even if I could accurately figure the sum. The truth is that I’ve been living with these characters, this story, this hopeful/troublesome project for so long that my mental processes have all become skewed in favor of just one more pass. The road to improvement is deeply rutted and not by wagon wheels that rolled smoothly along behind faithful draft animals. This rock-strewn track was ground out one bleeding footfall at a time.

               I’ve lost count of the number of revisions, large and small. At one time this hog ran to 148,000 words and now it’s settling somewhere around 85,000. (After careful thought and excruciating editing, I decided to go with the advice of the agent who said ‘whatever the count, make sure they’re the right words’ over that of the agent who said 60-83,000 was a magic target range.) I’ve added, subtracted and revised so many times that the number of individual taps on the keyboard is lost to the ages. Average 5.5 taps per word – you do the math, I’m afraid to. And through the earliest and longest and now shortest versions of the book and all the revisions in between, every tap was accomplished by one of three fingers, arthritis be damned. Turns out not taking typing when they offered it in high school was a less than stellar decision.

               But, regardless of the work I’ve put into past revisions, regardless how sore my butt or strained my eyes or tortured my hands, up to now I just couldn’t stop. There has always been one more ambiguity to resolve, a run-on sentence to reset, a paragraph to trim.  Does the reader need to know this random fact about a secondary character? No, out it goes. Wait, now it’s not… Back it comes.

               At some point, I can either resign myself that this is not so much a book as a never-ending writing exercise, or call a stop and put it out there. Because there is no Golden Mean in writing, no perfect word count, voice, pace, or anything else that will guarantee people will want to read it and having read it, recommend it to others. In the end, it’s all about the story and whether they care about the characters. I  believe this story is good and these characters compelling. And so…

               Enough, I say.

               But then, there is that problem with Cort…

               Enough, I said!

               Perhaps, if I just…

               ENOUGH!!!!!

               And so, I send it out. And IF this agent takes it on, or the next, or the next, and IF they find an editor at a reputable house who’s willing to read it and IF… and IF… and IF...

               And while I wait, and while I make the edits suggested by philistines who just don’t understand but through whose hands pass my ability to publish, and while I fend off the questions of the friends and family whom I foolishly let know of my position as literary supplicant and the oh-so-compassionate expressions of those who truly don’t believe I'll ever be published but want to seem to be in my corner just in case they’re wrong…

               While I wait…

               I begin writing the next one.

    Because I'm crazy. 

Serendipity

Sometimes, things just seem to come together.

I am preparing to submit my book The Patent Desk to agents and editors. The folks to whom I’ll be sending it have varied submissions requirements but mostly, they want to see a synopsis and first fifty pages. So, off I sent the fateful fifty for review by Corbin, the developmental editor with whom I’m working.

I received her edited, comment-strewn version back the other day and planned a four day weekend to make a (final?) pass before beginning submissions. But I glanced through her cuts night before last and I have to say, I was appalled at the very first cut she made.

Doesn’t she understand, I asked my inner self, that this paragraph is essential, that it establishes Max’s love for his craft? That he is lost in the rhythm and timbre of the work? How can she say this paragraph is confusing and too long?

I didn’t read further, steeling myself for what promised to be a teeth clenching, head shaking session of disagreement with my editor, a battle royale to preserve the integrity of my magnificent prose.  The voices of my internal Greek chorus shouted their dismay. How could this heretofore brilliant editor fail to understand how rich, how necessary was each and every one of those golden words?

Then, yesterday, I listened to a couple of TED talks while I ate my lunch. Andrew Stanton was talking about movie making and he said this:

(The opening) makes a promise that this story will lead somewhere that’s worth your time.

 His words made me stop and think. I rewound and listened again and then, again. And I wrote them down to share with you here.

This morning, I returned to Corbin’s edit but I disabled the review function so that I would not be distracted by angst about what she had cut or reordered. And I read what was left behind. And what I read was a promise of something to follow that would be worth the reader’s time and attention. And then I read her comments but still not the cuts and I saw her love of writing come through. My writing.

My words are there, but fewer of them. The best ones.

For anyone who wonders at the true meaning of serendipity, seems to me this is it. As I sat unwrapping my sandwich and TED surfing I wasn’t looking for that quote or even for Stanton, and certainly was not looking for advice that would help me past my writer’s ego. But there it was.

The voices in my head are still arguing, one faction saying read and accept and the other side asking what other gems the evil Corbin might have cruelly excised.

I’m leaning toward read and accept. Turns out, Corbin knows a thing or two. And I have a new personal definition of serendipity. 

Respect the experts

                Attending a writers’ conference last week, I was reminded of the importance of respecting the knowledge and skills of the experts in a field. Allow me to explain…

                I started the day nervous about the pitches I’d be making to a couple of literary agents but otherwise pretty confident in my own grasp of the writing game. I understood the roles of writer / agent / editor, the paths to acceptance of a manuscript for publication, my own responsibilities in the process of bringing a book to market, etc.

                Right? I got this, right?

                Turns out, not so much.

                Turns out, the publishing world has changed while I’ve been off living my life and writing my little blog posts. And if I am to be successful – assuming that ‘successful’ means a book published so that real people can read it and then does well enough to make my next submission attractive to the people who decide whether I get another turn – it behooves me to learn a few things. Facts of life, you might say. Things like the tighter word count limitations, platform, shifting genres, methods of submission… the list goes on.

                Never fear, I will learn these things and more. Because when you come into someone else’s world intent on fitting in the smart money is on, you know, fitting in.

                I think this is a lesson that needs to be learned, and soon, very soon, by the new guy in the Oval Office. He came there assuming that what he already knew would be enough and further, that his presumed great cachet of being this business mogul with a popular TV show and a series of trophy wives (as ever, more a statement about the man than the women he married) would make all bow down before him. He came to the halls of power with neither a road map nor a trustworthy guide. He brought lackeys and minions and miscreants to a team sport.

                He needs to learn the lessons of the field.

                He won’t.

                Idiot. 

-30-

                In the old days, which is to say when I still had red hair, it was customary to use the code ‘-30-‘ to signify ‘end of message.’ It was used by the newspaper industry and in some telegraphy codes. The origin of this bit of shorthand has become clouded as the Internet and wiki-compilations encourage anyone with an opinion to sound authoritative. Ah, well… A discussion for another time, perhaps.

                As a young writer (and I do mean young, as in grade school) I was intrigued by this particular custom. Couldn’t tell you why but on many of my early school papers and especially my personal essays I used the ‘-30-‘ mark to signify that a piece was finished. And yes, it annoyed some but not all of my teachers.

                Why not just write ‘The End’ as did everyone else in those days?

                I’ve thought about this quite a bit and especially now, when I’m approaching completion of the final pre-submission edit of my current book, The Patent Desk. For this book, it is particularly appropriate not to say The End. To understand why, you’ll have to read it.

                ‘-30-‘ seems to me a gentler sign-off. Not so much farewell as see you later. End of message but not the close out of our conversation together.

                Thirty – the number, not the copy editor’s shorthand – is in my mind for a wholly different reason today. Exactly thirty years ago as I type this, I was leaving a hotel room with my friend and best man Mark, on the way to the Asian Gardens for my wedding. Mark’s sister, Mary was at our house with her sisters and Mark’s wife (also one of my buddies from our musical theatre days) finishing up her own preparations.

                Thirty years ago today Mary and I embarked on our life and lives together. And looking back from this vantage point, I can assure you it is not The End.

                The conversation will continue, perhaps in new dialects as I transition from my current career to life as a writer and Mary plans (yes, she is in charge) our life as a couple after raising and educating offspring.

                Perhaps in the sense of the contrast between our family-creation years as opposed to our denouement together, ‘-30-‘ is the appropriate symbol of our completion of the first thirty.

                And, maybe I’m just stalling with odd thoughts while I try to figure out how to fix that one pivotal chapter in the book.

                You be the judge.