Category: Writing

A significant aspect of the revisions needed on Full of Days before I submit it to more publishers is the story of one of the main characters, Aillinn. She is a main character but her story lacks the richness of a main character – it fits too snugly into the shadow of the other main character’s story. So it must be changed… added to… enhanced. And how will this be possible? Greater character development, sure; digging deeper into the personality and experiences of the character as she interacts with others, yes; more tangible and captivating descriptions than are currently written of her, certainly. But besides these, key to this task is the addition of more drama. Struggle, disappointment, difficulty, dilemma, crisis, mistakes, recovery – more drama… That shouldn’t be too difficult for a fiction writer. Right? Um, right.

Dare I admit that I have a strong distaste for creating more drama in these people’s lives? They’re fictional! They are not real! The drama is not real! Yes, but I know these people inside and out, fictional or not. I hate creating drama in real life and I am living real life while I’m writing so this translates into a bit of a struggle. I am brainstorming over what to add to Aillinn’s life, what circumstances to create for her to have a richer, more significant story. Each idea that presents itself is accompanied by a hesitation. “I don’t want to do that to her!” Or, “that might be too dramatic.” It’s hard to sort out the thoughts to know which to heed and which to ignore.

“Adversity is like a strong wind. It tears away from us all but the things that cannot be torn, so that we see ourselves as we really are.” (Arthur Golden) It is this which I believe I did accomplish in Annie, the other main character of Full of Days. It is this which I am attempting to do for Aillinn.

This weekend a friend asked what was the deal with my lack of blogging. It’s been a few weeks since my last post and the previous posts have been spread out much more than usual. My sister, who heard my friend’s comment, immediately suggested that I’ve been too well occupied with other things to be blogging. It’s true I’ve been happily occupied elsewhere but I don’t think it’d be right to place the blame on my new and wonderful boyfriend. At least, not all the blame. Even before things got started with him my blogging pace had flagged. That’s just a symptom of something more, I think, because all my writing has flagged.

Each time I try to sit down to work on The Mercy Hour I am unable to do so. Distraction, discouragment, uncertainty… I’m not in best writing form right now. I’m hoping and praying I’ll be able to shake it – whatever ‘it’ is. The thorough and harsh critique I received recently from an editor on my submission of Full of Days might have something to do with it… or a lot to do with it. Rejection after rejection has come and it’s been easy to keep up my determined and positive spirit. This was the first one though that included a critique instead of the prewritten rejection response that is sent by most publishers. Criticism can be a really good thing and it’s a necessary thing for a writer, at least, for any writer who wants to continually improve. This criticism amounted to (and no, I’m not imagining this implication, it’s there in the email) the editor being of the opinion that Full of Days is unpublishable. I’m not going to pretend that I’m having an easy time dealing with that. So far my dealing has been in the form of avoidance. Eventually I will switch to perservance and put in the work necessary to improve the novel to point of being publishable in the eyes of the right publishing company. Just give me some time to get there, friends.

Chapter twelve of The Mercy Hour is proving to be a challenge. I feel beastly putting my lead character through such lows. I’m writing her into restoration but it’s a long road when she starts from such a broken state. My determination remains as high as the challenge though. The experience of writing this book is remarkably different from the first time around. Full of Days was so experimental, riding on the question, “Could I actually do this?” From the most well-intentioned folks, I heard again and again that “just that you’re trying” is impressive enough. I was encouraged to be proud of the attempt no matter the result. I waffled on how I felt about such comments. Sometimes the trying really was enough, or nearly. This time? This time I want to laugh at anyone who resorts to those handouts of edification. The question of whether I can has been answered. It is only about whether I will and how well.

My imagination is spilling over. I’d like to tuck myself away in an upstairs room with a window seat and a good lamp. As Anne Shirley so aptly put it, “I just feel tired of everything sensible and I’m going to let my imagination run riot for the summer.” But I think I’ll start with spring.

Yesterday – oh what a day it became by its end. I typed up the new pages of The Mercy Hour I’d written while on vacation. Each line delighted me. Sometimes I don’t remember exactly what I wrote for a particular conversation or scenario and when I reread it there comes a wondrous sense of self-discovery. One of my favorite things about writing the book on paper first is the chance to improve upon it right away as I type it. I come across a sentence in which I know what I mean to say but there is no way the reader will likewise know. It must be reworded, rephrased, rethought! Those sentences stare me down with a challenge in their gaze. Do better! I love that challenge every single time it arises.

In the process of typing those pages (I’m in the middle of chapter eleven now!) I had an epiphanic flash regarding Full of Days, the finished, unpublished manuscript. The start of Full of Days has never sat well with me. There are few things I know about writing well but one is that the beginning of the story must grab the reader, drawing them into its tale with only a few paragraphs. The beginning of my manuscript is weak. If I’m honest with myself, I don’t think the first paragraphs would cause me to read the rest of the book. As the first three chapters often make up the sample I’m able to send to publishers, I’ve wondered if this uncompelling beginning has been a principal factor in the manuscript rejections. But to return to yesterday! Seemingly out of nowhere, for my imagination was consumed by the characters of The Mercy Hour, it dawned on me how to rework the start of Full of Days without eliminating anything essential. Why couldn’t I have thought of it sooner? Like, before I ever sent it to publishers! Ah well, I mustn’t complain about the timing of the insight. Who knows how it might help me in future submissions.

After work last night I was desperate to make the changes which were already written out in my imagination. Three hours at my favorite coffeehouse and I not only had all the new material typed up but also the first few pages of Full of Days rewritten to my great satisfaction. I don’t know if there are any necessary words besides “giddy” to describe my general spirit last night. The energy provided by some good hours of writing are comparable to all those wonderful endorphins produced during a great workout. There was no going to sleep at my usual time. My mind could not consent to rest. Instead I finished reading an L. M. Montgomery novel. This brought me no closer to sleep as the beauty of her writing and the magnificence of the story stirred up a veritable stew of emotions.

There are particular books that tear at my writer’s soul. Excellence, beauty, effectiveness – a work like this assaults me. In reading it, I am thrilled to be a “writer,” for whatever that’s worth, and at the same moment pulled down into doubt of whether I can ever write anything meaningful and worthwhile. The events of last night – the new pages, rewriting the start of the manuscript, reading a gorgeous novel – somehow overwhelmed me. Last night was one of those “fully alive” nights. You know, those moments when you are engaged with life to the fullest, far beyond the engagement in the usual minutes and hours compiling your days. You are fully yourself alive. They are glorious times, are they not? This particular one has left me with the feeling of an old wine skin that cannot possibly contain itself much longer. The emotion… the thrill and urgency that are simultaneously elating and burdening me will not recede. I could scream, or sing, or sprint. I could burst into a thousand twinkling pieces to settle in the sky with no hope of return. I could write. I will write.

Well, Full of Days is officially submitted to Sophia Institute Press, the one and only Catholic publisher I have found who actually prints a few fiction titles once in a while. Sending a manuscript submission always takes a lot out of me. I hit send on that email or attach the postage to that envelope with shaking hands. The panicked sort of thrill leaves me scattered and on edge for at least the rest of the day. There is this immense sense of helplessness after sending it out. The ball is in the publisher’s court, and will likely lie still on the floor for a couple of months at least before they make any sort of move. Heck, Moody Publishing has held onto the ball for the better part of a year now. If I knew any way to get that ball rolling, you can bet I’d be doing it.

Enough with the ball metaphor. I said about four different prayers before sending that email minutes ago. When I’d repeated “Jesus, I trust in You” enough times to grasp a brief flash of calm, the submission was sent on its way. What kind of reception it will be given is next to impossible to know.

I think a glass of wine is in order. Or two. Starting now.