By now, I’ve put in month upon month on the process, so when I reach the finish line I give myself a few days to decompress in order to clear my mind. Then I sit down and take a critical look at the novel because I’ve never considered anything I’ve written as something finished after the first draft. What I want to do at this point, then, is evaluate the novel for its strengths and weaknesses.
Initially, I read the manuscript in as few sittings as possible. When my books were shorter, I could do this in one eight-to-ten-hour day. As they became longer, I had to increase the time it would take to read everything. But in any case, I do this first reading in as few sessions as I can manage because I want to keep the story, its plot, its subplots, its theme, and its characters as fresh in my mind as I can, and I couldn’t do that if the reading of the manuscript took me several weeks of interrupted time. So I go into my office, close the door, and emerge for meals (during which I still read the manuscript). Doing it like this, I’ve found it’s easier for me to find the faults that I otherwise might miss.
While I’m reading, I’m using Post-its on the manuscript with notes referencing whatever it is on that particular page that I need to look at and evaluate later. I’m also making lengthier notes on paper that I keep next to the manuscript as I read. But even these lengthier notes aren’t much more than “I might need to back off the overt emotion from Lynley” and so on.
Following this method, I can generally tell if there are problem areas, repetitions, inconsistencies, too much of something, too little of something else. I can note if words or phrases have been overused. I can see if a subplot isn’t necessary. Most of the time, I can also see if something is lacking: for example, a scene may need a fuller description of place, a more character-specific THAD, a different THAD entirely because too many people are doing the same thing (like cooking or eating). All of this is noted on the aforementioned piece of paper that I keep next to the manuscript as I’m reading.
Then I get more serious. Having completed my as-quickly-as-I-can initial reading, I now read each subplot on its own. To do this, I first remove all subplots from the manuscript, having identified them with mini Post-its of various colors. Going from start to finish on each individual subplot, I look at the arc of this story, since a subplot, while thematically unified with the rest of the novel, must tell a full story as well. This is the point at which I’m evaluating whether an entire subplot will stay or meet its fate on the cutting-room floor. I ask myself if the subplot truly meets the needs of the novel. I ask myself if the subplot adds to the reader’s understanding of place, character, and theme.
I then generate an editorial letter for myself. It’s going to take me some time to do the second draft of the novel, so I want to know what my objectives are and I want to remember these objectives throughout my creation of a second draft.
When I turn from this information-gathering step, I generate a second draft of the novel by working directly on the first draft. I won’t put anything into the computer until the second draft is completed. During this part of my process, I cut and paste when necessary, I slash anything that seems prolix, unnecessary, or overwrought. If the novel needs to be restructured, now is when I do it, moving things around should they need to be placed at a different point in the book. When I’ve taken this manuscript revising as far as I can without someone offering an opinion on it, I put all the changes that I’ve made into the computer, and I print another copy of the manuscript.
This copy is going to go to my longtime cold reader. She is a former teaching colleague who is not a writer but rather a passionate book lover who reads dozens of novels every year. What makes her an exceptional cold reader is that she has absolutely no ax to grind: personal, professional, literary, or otherwise.
I don’t hand over the manuscript with the message “Do what you will.” I want to direct her reading in a way that will be helpful to me when it comes to creating the third draft. So I give her two sets of material that will guide her reading.
One set she reads in advance so that she’ll know what I’m looking for from her. Examples might be “Mark any spot where your interest is flagging” or “Mark every place where you suspect someone of something.”
The other set I give to her in a sealed envelope. She opens this envelope immediately upon finishing the novel. Now she sees the questions that I feared might influence her reading if she’d had them in advance. These are questions like “I think I have too many Barbara Havers scenes. What do you think?” or “I had trouble describing the market square in Ludlow. Have I given you enough information so that you can picture it?” She answers these questions with the novel still fresh in her mind.
From what she’s written I create another set of revisions, which will be narrower in scope than those that arose from my editorial letter to myself. As before, I work directly on the manuscript, which my cold reader has returned to me. From this I ultimately generate a third draft, and it is this draft that I send to my editor.
Why go through all this? you might well ask. I go through it because once I’ve sent the novel to my editor, I want to spend as little additional time on it as possible. I want my editor’s letter to me to be very brief, suggesting minor adjustments only. I want to be finished with the book because, frankly, after all the work I’ve put into it, the novel holds virtually no charm for me. I also go through all of this because I’m a perfectionist. I take enormous pride in my work, and when I show it to someone—particularly to my editor—I want it to represent the best I can do. Handing off a rough draft and telling my editor, “You figure out what to do with it,” isn’t who I am.
That begs the question, does someone need to be a perfectionist to follow and maintain the process that I’ve described in this book? Nope. But by trying various ways of approaching novel writing, all creators of fiction can develop a process that works for them.
I expect you know the drill and the drill is discipline. People can give all kinds of advice and make all sorts of recommendations when it comes to writing a novel. But none of these are going to be helpful if the potential writer lacks self-discipline. Self-discipline is all about being willing to delay gratification. It’s all about doing what you have to do or need to do first and doing what you want to do second. All successful people know this. The luckiest among them find that what they have to do, what they need to do, and what they want to do combine to lead to the same thing: the joy of living a creative life.