Where Does the Rewriting Stop?

The first draft of my second novel is finished. Now begins the search for perfection, that unattainable point where the rewriting stops.

So, where is that, exactly?

For the most part, rewriting comes before proofing, and concerns punctuation and spelling and word choice, and in the later stages, formatting, consistency, and continuity. The obvious stuff. Then there’s the part of the writing process that drives me batty; when my mind makes changes to something I have already written and moved past. This usually occurs in the early morning hours, during that space of time between being asleep and being awake, and come from that dusty corner of the mind where the remnants of dreams live. They are wisps of thought, misty images of scenes, and they commingle with my consciousness as I wake. They are suggestions that task me when I open my eyes, and they are as fleeting as the dreams they come from. 

So I write them down.

I read somewhere that writers should never ignore their dreams. They are pure creation, and they reveal themselves for a reason. As a writer, dismissing them is foolish. For my money, this applies to rewrites as well.

I mentioned earlier that my next novel is in rewrites. I woke the other morning with the thought of my protagonist’s early intro into the story. She does a job she does not care for. She doesn’t hate it because she understands the necessity for it, and likens it to the average American worker who is good at a job that they don’t enjoy. My early morning epiphany suggested I needed to drive that point home a bit more early on, in order to enrich the character, and give the changes she goes through more impact.       

To emphasize the point, I’ll share with you an anecdote a friend shared with me. He said Jeffery Deaver (The Bone Collector, The October List) once told him that he would edit his novels right up to the time they went to print if he could. 

All things considered, I suppose that’s where the rewriting stops … for that edition.

Best Regards,

DB

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Shopping for the Book Launch

Since the book launch is Saturday, I decided to up my blog output just a little to chronicle the events leading up to the big day. For example, Maggie said that I should have some new clothes for the launch. I don’t know why. I have plenty of t-shirts, and I thought jeans with holes were the style. Just because I wore the holes in them myself, shouldn’t change that.

But who was I kiddin’….

“You need some new clothes. I’m tired of seeing you in those same ol’ ratty jeans. Besides,” she said, “I’m an author’s wife and I want to look nice, so you’re going shopping with me.”

“Me? You talkin’ to me?”

“Yes I’m talking to you…. I want your opinion.”

“Okay. You look good in everything.”

Now most guys hate to shop. And I’m no exception. I shop when I have to—once or twice a year maybe, not counting Christmas: a couple pairs of jeans, some shirts, underwear … maybe a pair of socks, and I’m set. But then there’s the occasional occasion when there’s no avoiding going shopping ... with a woman. A book launch qualifies.

Visions of traipsing from store to store passed before my eyes; like your life when you think you’re gonna die. Back and forth, from one store to another, then back again. I mean, how many times does one have to visit the same store? I saw myself following her like a dejected child—pouting; standing around while she rummaged through rack after rack trying to find something that:

Fit.
Didn’t make her look fat.
Was pretty.
Didn’t make her look fat.
Was appropriate.
Didn’t make her look fat.

So she drags me to the Mall. There must be a thousand stores in that place. And I fully expected to visit each-and-every-one. She likes Macys. So that’s where I park. Who knew the store she’d actually buy in was on the other side of the planet.

The dressy casual dresses are on the second floor. I didn’t even know that was a category. Thank the Lord there were escalators. We head upstairs and walked a mile or so to the casual dress section. She begins her run and I wait. A day later, she says, “I can’t find anything. Let’s go to Penney’s.”

We walk to the other side of the Mall. She starts another run. I wait. “There’s more dresses downstairs,” she says, so down we go. This time, we have to use the stairway outside the store because it’s closer than the escalator. Well, that’s fine with me. It was downhill.

“There’s nothing here. Let’s go back. I want to look at one I saw upstairs again.” Now, it’s uphill. Two landings. I hate stairs. She decides “we” need to go to another store. We pass Sears.

“Let’s try here.”

“Sears? You need power tools?”

“No, silly. A dress.”

It may as well have been power tools, since there were no dresses that she liked. We make a beeline to Boscov’s. Nothing. Back to Penney’s. We come to a set of stairs that look awfully familiar. Up we go.

“I can’t make up my mind. Help me.” She disappears and comes back wearing the first of seventeen dresses she’s picked out.

 “I like that one. Let’s go home.”

Ooooh-noooo! I have to see each one. Between changes, I occupied myself by taking short trips across the tile floor, making sure my sneakers landed squarely on the tile without touching a grout joint. Tiring of that, I traveled in tiny figure eights. Its funny how, if you look at them sideways, they look like the symbol for Infinity, meaning without end; just like this trip.  

At one point, a salesman walked by.

“Can I help you, sir?”

The answer came as a sigh preceded by a breath. “Noooo … shopping with a woman.”

“Ah!” he said. “Well, we have plenty of comfy chairs,” and then he continued on, snickering under his breath.

Eventually, she settles on a dress she likes.

Finally. "You look great. Let's go home."

“I need accessories.”

“Accessories? What? … like an A/C adaptor?”

So with dress in hand, we traipse over to the shoe department.

“I’m not paying $80 for a pair of shoes,” she says. “We can find them cheaper someplace else.”

Great! Now she’s frugal.

After visiting a store that had the gall to refer to itself as “Payless,” there were four other shoe stores to visit. None had anything that matched the dress. Back to Penney’s. I forked out the eighty bucks hoping to get home before the turn of the century.

“Okay, just one more thing.”

Another “thing?” How many “things” do women need? This is a one-day affair, not a camping trip.

Back to Payless. Handbags.

“Why didn’t you just get the handbag when we were here the first time?”

“We didn’t have the shoes. The handbag has to match the shoes.”

“Don’t the dress match the shoes?

“Yes.”

“So? …”

“So the handbag has to match the shoes.”

“????”

“Weren’t you just here?” the saleswoman said.

“Yeah, in another lifetime.”

Nothing there. Back to Penney’s. I think I’m gonna buy stock.

“The weatherman said it was going to be cool Saturday,” she murmured.

“Yeah. So?”

“I might get chilly. Help me find a bolero.”

“Okay…. That’s some kind o’ hat, right?”

I never heard so many women snickering at one time.

Well, I have to admit. When we did finally get home, she put everything on and looked stunning. I decided it was worth the trip and then some.

“You know, honey” I said. “You’ll be the prettiest woman there.”

By the way, I know I have a flare for exaggeration, but honestly, most of this actually happened. I just embellished a little.


DB

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A Matter of Perception

If, per chance, you have the opportunity and the wherewithal to engage mathematicians, or theoretical physicists, or most any science fiction writer that delves in temporal mechanics, and you ask them about the characteristics of Time, I believe they will tell you that Time, when boiled down to its simplest form, is essentially a variable; that it travels linearly through space at various rates depending on where you are, depending on who you are.

Case in point:

Any little kid will tell you that Time slows down the closer they get to summer vacation, or their birthday, or Christmas, but once there, Time speeds up, and it’s over too soon.

Ask the parents of those kids the same question, of the same events, and they’ll say the exact opposite.

So it is with the launch of Chain of Evidence. It seemed that just the other day I had weeks and weeks before the event. Now there is less than one. Where did all that time go? It seems that Time began to accelerate as the appointed date grew closer.

There was so much to do, so much preparation, and it’s nearly all complete thanks to Maggie—my wife and biggest fan. Without her help, I’d be floundering like a schooner on a windless sea.

“Behind every successful man,” as they say.

Thank you, honey.

Of course, Maggie has an ulterior motive.

She wants to see me succeed. She thinks me a great writer, and who am I to contradict her? But I am of a different opinion. I like to think that I spin a good yarn. Without a good story to tell, the writing is just the writing. It can be good or bad. It’s the story that counts.

Another case in point:

Fifty Shades of Grey – A story that hit at just the right time. Apparently, no one cared about the writing.

Now I have a story that I want to tell. It’s a good story, and it will appeal to anyone who enjoys a good mystery, or thriller, or forensics whodunit, or even a slap-in-the-face twist, because Chain of Evidence employs all those aspects. It also speaks to our aging populace—The Baby Boomers. The story addresses current times where the economy, the political climate, and one’s physical abilities are changing, diminishing, and these changes force the Protagonist, Moby Truax, to deal with them all. This story comes at the right time as well.

Now I begin the groveling.

A goodly number of folks from all parts of the world read this blog, and that humbles me in ways for which I can find no words—not such a good thing for a writer to admit, so let me just say this:

Thank You.

I am honored that folks take time from their busy lives to read these words.

Now that the book is out, I’ll ask those folks who enjoy reading this blog, to read the book and discover what it is that inspires these writings, and after they read it, write a short review or a blurb and post it here, or on Customer Reviews on Amazon, or even on Goodreads. Then I’ll ask them to ask their friends to do the same. I promise … it will do for you what a work of fiction is supposed to do.

I have a great deal of confidence that readers of Chain of Evidence will enjoy the hell out of it, and I’m confident they won’t see the twist coming until it hits them like an open hand on the forehead. Then, I hope, they’ll anticipate my next book, which I should complete by year’s end, thus starting he process all over again.

This is what it’s all about.

The story telling is what I want to do, but the marketing is what I have to do, if I’m to keep writing.

Please … let me know how you like the novel.

I’ll be waiting.

DB

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The Home Stretch

Yeah … you’d think, now that your novel is in the final stages before publication and the hard part is done, right? You’ve worked hard. The novel is written. The edits are complete. The cover design is in the works and the copyright is in process. Marketing is ramping up, the release party is scheduled, and your last rejection is behind you.

Whew!

Now the book is all it can be! All that’s left to do is to make a list of guests, whip out a new blog post, update Facebook LinkedIn and Twitter, and maybe, since you’ve been inviting so many people to your website (mine’s www.dbcorey.com, by the way), you decide to have a quick look at the excerpt you put there to make the reader’s mouths water. After all, it’s been a while, and you just love that scene.

You read out loud because you have a reading coming up and you need the practice, but mostly because the words are so pleasing to the ear. You smile as the words flow without effort from your lips; you hear the music, the rhythm—the tongue-twister….

“Whud?”

OH NOOOOO!!!! NO! NO! NO!

IS IT LIKE THAT IN THE MANUSCRIPT?

OMG! Whereisitwhereisit? Scroll-scroll-scroll. Crap! Find! Ah! There it is.
OH NOOOOO!!!!

It’s the same!

WhatamIgonnado? WhatamIgonnado?

FIX IT! That’s what!

But the publisher has the copy that says Approved Final Copy. If you change it, then it won’t be the approved final copy anymore. So you bite the bullet and send them the NEW Approved Final Copy—Ver2! Then you hope LegalZoom hasn’t sent it to the Copyright Office yet or it’s gonna cost you more money and you call them and tell them to trash the one you sent yesterday and use this NEW Ver2!

It’s been a taxing experience, so after all the corrections and calls and emails, you’re worn out, and you go to bed.

The next day everyone is amiable and understands that this is a process, and that’s just the way it works.

You feel good. You re-load the newly, un-tongue-twisted version onto your excerpt page and resume your out-loud reading.

“Dump them in the sink,” he commanded Vecchio, shoving the baby into Vicky’s arms. “Hold her! Open her mouth!”

Grabbing several capsules from the basin, Truax broke them open. Seeing Vicki struggling to get Jade’s mouth—

“Whud?”

Vicky?

Vicki?

OH NOOOOO!!!! NO! NO! NO!

NEW Approved Final Copy—

Ver3!

Illustration used with permission from Debbie Ridpath Ohi at Inkygirl.com

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The Marketing of a Writer

I've never been comfortable talking about myself; blowing my own horn, or any of those self-promoting things I hear one must do to become a much read author. I suppose it's because of the “lessons” my ol' man drummed into me when I was a kid:

 

“Don’t be a showboat!”

“Stop talkin’ about yourself!”

“Nobody likes a blowhard!”

Yep. That was my ol’ man.

But now I find that those self-serving behaviors are necessary since self-promotion is required to market an author’s novel. So in order to market my work, I must rebel against the mandates of my father and convince you that you'll marry your high school heart-throb, get the job of your dreams, move into a big house in the country, and that your life will change ever for the better—if, and only if, you spend your hard-earned money on my new novel, Chain of Evidence.

"Yes Ladies and Gents, step right up for the cure to what ails ya! This book cures neuritis and neuralgia, insomnia and narcolepsy, iron-poor-blood and hardening of the arteries. It cures thinning hair, wakes you up if you’re drowsy and lulls you to sleep if you’re not. That’s right friends and neighbors, it’s the wonder-book of the 21^st Century. Don’t miss out! Get your copy today! Don't be shy! That's it, step right up!" 

 ​

Literary snake-oil salesman.

That's how I feel, asking you to buy something that I'm peddling when you know nothing about who I am. So! I will try to make you comfortable enough with me to spend the cash that you work so hard to earn.

I am not an English major by any stretch of the imagination. I barely graduated high school and flunked out of my probationary semester of junior college. It was not an auspicious start to an illustrious writing career, but Life has a way about it. It waited patiently as I engaged in all the self-destructive behaviors of Youth, and when the Better Judgment I had denied in those formative years finally revealed itself, Life stepped in with a question.

“Are you good enough to write a book?”     

I liked reading, although I didn’t do that much of it. Usually on the beach during summer vacation. Clancy, Koontz, and Coonts were a couple of my favorites. King as well. But how could I write like those guys? Well, I couldn’t. But if I wanted to answer Life’s question, I had to learn the lessons that I passed up when I had the chance.

I knew I wasn’t stupid, just behind the curve. After the Navy, I went back to college at night. My grades surprised me; 3.0—even in English 101 & 102. I figured I had a fighting chance. All I needed was a refresher. So I took a couple creative writing courses at the local college, and found—to my amazement—that I enjoyed them.

I began writing the novel. I’d type a couple pages and check the word count. Type a couple more pages and check the word count. 1400 words.

“Damn! This is tough! And no, I’m not using too many exclamation points!”

A novel should start at around 80,000 words. Fewer than that and you have a novella; the novel’s little sister. So I plodded through, joined critiques groups, a writing site, and The Maryland Writers Association. Everything helped and the writing became better. Family and friends encouraged me, and I found that I had more money. Writing takes lots of time, so the nights I spent in the bar shooting pool had to go. Either that, or I shift to acting and audition for The Hustler. Not likely with my billiard skills.

I spent a shade over a year on the first novel, and it took 2^nd place in a writing contest. I was elated ... until the thirtieth agent rejected it. It was then I realized that the first novel sucked, and after discussing it with other writers, it seems the first one always does. It’s all part of the process ... unless your name is Hemingway. But I kinda think that maybe his first wasn’t all that either. I had a decision to make. Keep trying ... or quit.

I quit a bunch of stuff in my life: the clarinet, high school baseball, college, Tae Kwon Do, three marriages, a couple of diets, and one or two lousy jobs. I didn’t want to quit this too, although writing was hard. But as I credited to Tom Hanks in an earlier post—

“If it wasn’t hard everyone would do it. The hard is what makes it great.”

I believe that to be true. If writing a novel wasn’t hard, anyone could do it.

Anyone....

At this stage of my life, with three grand children to look up to me, I want to achieve something more, even if it is just writing a book.

See ya next week.
DB

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Gittin’ Published Ain’t Easy

So you wrote a book. 85,000 words give or take. You sent query letters to many, many agents. Some used form letters to reply, and some didn’t reply at all. Those are especially annoying since they tell you, “If we do not respond, we’re not interested. Please wait four to six weeks for our non-response.” And you do. But when four to six weeks roll around, you forget who it was that you were waiting not to hear from. Others are civil enough to scribble a note saying, “Your work does not fit out needs at this time, but keep trying. We’re fairly certain someone will like it.”

      Well, the “keep trying” part becomes tiring.

As an unproven writer, you don’t know if the problem is your work, if the agent is speaking the truth, or if it’s a little of both. You don’t trust your family or friends to proof your work and give you an honest critique, because if it’s bad, they will always lie to you in a misguided attempt to spare your feelings. And that’s the rub, isn’t it? The Catch-22! If they don’t tell you that your writing needs work, how can you hope to improve?

They will tell you what they think you want to hear because they don’t want to discourage you. If they discourage you, you might quit. If you quit, you may never amount to anything, and if you never amount of anything, it’ll be their fault.

So they lie.

They tell you they’ve never read such a great book in all of their lives. You see dollar signs, big houses on the lake, and throngs of adoring fans. You look in the mirror and see J.K. Rowling if you’re a woman, or Stephen King if you’re a guy (ok, maybe not King).

You get all revved up and submit a query, a bio, a synopsis, and a couple of chapters. Then, you wait. Eventually you come to the realization that rejection takes a very long time. Meanwhile, you find that insisting on an honest critique helps a little with friends and family, and they try, but they dip it in sugar so it’s easier for you to swallow, and the process starts all over again.

All of this is part of becoming a writer. It’s painful and it’s hard. But as Tom Hanks said in A League of Their Own—

“If it wasn't hard everyone would do it. The hard is what makes it great.”

       Keep writing.

DB

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2013

  

Yet another New Year. For me, the 64^th of 64.

A bit late to start a writing career, wouldn’t you think? But I say, why not! Because as it is with each New Year, 2013 rings in with the promise and the celebration and the optimism of a new birth.

Is it a fresh start? You betcha! With all the potential and promise of a new day. Every New Year is. If they weren’t, what would we have? We may as well just go behind the barn and shoot ourselves ... unless we bought Apple at six.

In 2005, someone told me that I was a good writer, that my emails were compelling, and suggested that I write a book.

Write a book.

     That’s what authors do.

     That’s how authors make their living. They entertain the masses by taking them out of their humdrum, everyday existence into the dynamic lives of the people they’d like to be: cops and robbers, astronauts and aliens, witches and warlocks ... hustlers and hookers.

     We all wonder ... what would it be like?

     The author shows us.  Takes us there, and we become that which we seek; if for just a little while. The author has the power to transform our ordinary worlds into something extra-ordinary, and we seek them out in every bookstore we encounter.

2013 is my new day, for in August I will have finally attained the goal of “published author.” But nothing on this road has been easy: the writing, the rewriting, the submissions, the rejections, the rejections, the rejections. I often wonder how I stayed with it; maybe because I never really thought I’d ever make it, or maybe because someone very special prodded me not to quit. But whatever the reason, I have reached the first level.

Now comes the hard part.

Care to follow me?

Press the subscribe button.

DB Corey

Illustration used with permission from Debbie Ridpath Ohi at Inkygirl.com

DB

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