My Writing Process Doesn't Exist

Fair warning, coffee beans, this is going to be a long post. So buckle in and make sure to keep your arms and legs inside the vehicle at all times.

Now that I’ve edited two complete novels and am close to finishing my third, not to mention my various editing dalliances and numerous rough drafts along the way, I feel like I have a bit more perspective on my writing process than I did when I started this blog. That means it’s time to confront some of my overconfidence.

There’s nothing like finishing your first novel to make you think you know what you’re doing. You wrote a book. You conquered. Now you are equipped to sit sagely, handing out advice, telling others how to climb their own mountains, banish their own demons, etc, etc. It becomes uncomfortably obvious that you don’t actually know what you’re talking about when your own advice doesn’t help you write your next book.

I’ve noticed a pattern with myself. Every time I write something, big or small, I end up thinking I know who I am as a writer, how my process works. But this is a stultifying, dangerous perspective, because it limits my ability to move forward.

When I finished TIB, I knew that I was a writer who drafted in chronological order, who wrote quickly and edited quickly, who needed a minimal number of drafts. I looked at my success and told myself, okay, whipping out a book each year is easy. Knowing that I hadn’t pushed myself as hard as I could with TIB meant I could probably even manage two books per year. (Wow, Liz. Wow. I did not raise you to be this arrogant.)

Through that experience, I learned a great deal about the mechanics of my editing process, which I consider to be, in many ways, divorced from my writing process. How I approach the editing itself has never changed. I rewrite everything word for word. I subtract in the second draft, add in the third. My brain works well with that sort of structure. But the way I go about editing—the broader picture, how I approach the draft as a whole—differs.

There were things I learned through the TIB experience that I thought were steadfast aspects of my writerly identity. I got up early—4:00 am early—every morning, and wrote with my Earl Grey in bed, listening to music. I wrote after school, until supper, and after supper I wrote more. Weekends I worked late into the night after watching Star Trek. I was a writing machine.

After TIB, I picked up DRACONIAN, and I thought, with all this new knowledge and, gasp, expertise that I have garnered, surely this will be a breeze. Spoilers. It was a breeze in the way that a hurricane force wind that rips your clothes off and lands you a free trampoline in your demolished backyard could be considered a breeze. What’s worse is that the whole experience was deceptively fun at first. Drafting it was straightforward. Even the first round of editing wasn’t so horrible, though it took longer than I had planned. I was still pleased with my story, still confident that I knew what I was doing.

Then disaster struck. It was inevitable, a land slide that started ages before, whose rumblings I chose to ignore. The whole time I was working on DRACONIAN, I was querying agents for TIB. I think I sent out letters for six months to a year. I don’t remember the exact timeline, but it was a while. I received a stream of rejections for even longer than that. One came five months or so after I marked it off as an assumed rejection. I could give you more accurate numbers, but opening that Excel spread sheet is a walk in a different sort of park, the kind where you need to carry shivs and mace and everyone looks at you like you would be fun to murder.

I received an onslaught of rejections. Had I so desired, I could have printed them out and folded enough origami swans to have like, fifty origami swans. (Seriously, how am I not published?)

I experienced some life changes around this time. I graduated high school, got my first job. Then I moved to Virginia and started rooming with my sister. Like, literally rooming. Our first apartment was a single room, with a bathroom and a shared kitchen. All of these various events made my 4:30/4:00 am mornings first improbable, then impossible. I think it was easy to let that routine go, to not fight for it, and then to tell myself that I was failing at writing because, see, I wasn’t able to get up early in the mornings anymore.

What made the whole situation more unbearable is that I had a beta reader, on what I think was the third draft, who hated my book and tore it to shreds. I had it in my mind that you are allowed to ignore beta feedback you don’t think will make your story better, but you aren’t allowed to ignore feedback out of spite or because you’re hurt by it. I figured that I had to overcompensate for my emotions by listening to everything she said, no matter how untrue it felt to my story. Eventually I reached a point, some ten thousand words before the end, when I finally realized that if I looked at another one of her critiques, I was probably going to delete my entire draft.

When I handed my poor, battered book-child off to my next critique partner, this time my sister, she pointed out that all the edits I had input in the name of responding well to criticism had caused my book to take a massive step backwards. I don’t want to write a harangue on beta readers, because they are a necessary part of the process, but it really shook me, the whole experience, has made me a lot slower to seek out feedback from strangers, even vetted ones.

In 2017 I got DRACONIAN to the point where I felt it was as close to done as I could make it, so I started querying. I think I sent out around twelve query letters before realizing they all had a pretty glaring typo in them, which I had somehow missed even when I tried to fix it. I think that, more than anything, shows me how horrible my eating disorder brain fog was. And I was still trying to function like I was at 100%.

I didn’t hear back from most of those agents. One super sweet, super kind agent gave me some light, personalized feedback on my first fifty pages, and she said basically what I had been fearing, that, among other things, my world building needed more work.

I didn’t make any sort of set decision, but it just kind of happened naturally. I always meant to send out more queries, did the research on more agents, prepped more letters. I never sent them. (Don’t despair. I haven’t trunked DRACONIAN. I have another editing update that I plan to post soon.)

The lesson from that whole experience, as I saw it through the lens of how I felt as a writer post TIB, is that my writing process worked, but that I was broken. I couldn’t stick to the roadmap, so something must have been wrong with my vision.

I’m not going to argue that there was one single thing that I did wrong in the process with DRACONIAN that, if avoided, would have altered the entire course of events. There were so many things that went wrong, and there were additional factors that were out of my control.

But let’s move on to HIRAETH. I drafted HIRAETH out of order, just threw everything on the page, and none of it made sense, but all of it was exhilarating. The adults had exited the building; I could do whatever I wanted. I could make as much of a mess as I needed to in order to draft the thing, because I didn’t have to clean it up in any sort of hurry. My only plan for the story, at that point, was to share it on this blog someday, maybe, if it was good, if I felt like it. Zero pressure for me to perform. That release made it fun for me, made the story a refuge, something secret I got to keep for myself.

What I’ve learned, I think, is that my writing process doesn’t exist. With TIB, I wrote how I felt I was supposed to write, in order, quickly, with more confidence than was my due. With DRACONIAN, I thought that I could apply the same mold and get the same results. I thought I could ignore everyone saying your sophomore novel is the one that makes you want to quit, because I thought I was special and therefore exempt.

Here is something that you should know. You are allowed to write however you want, and you don’t have to have any set way you do things. Whatever works for you in the moment is your writing process. You can write at home for one book, at a coffee shop for another, in your unsuspecting neighbor’s basement for your next. Whatever gets the words on the page.

I think it’s maybe a bad idea to label yourself as a panster or a plotter, to force yourself into that dichotomy. If that works for you, awesome, and if you want the label, then wear it proudly. I spent so long telling myself that I was a panster that I never even let myself try plotting, except with the understanding that it was something I would hate. It’s hard to explain that brain space. Your subconscious takes over, turns your preconceived notions into rules which you follow to your detriment. You don’t like something because you tell yourself you don’t like it.

I outlined HIRAETH. True, I did so after the fact, when I had a handful of random scenes I was juggling, when I had to bring some semblance of order to the words on the page, but that was something I would have never even let myself consider before.

That’s what I’m trying with BMT, outlining, writing out of order, pantsing, a little bit of everything. For the first time in four years with this book, I think I finally see a hint of light at the end of the tunnel. (Although it’s weird, because I keep hearing these choo choo noises. Anyone know what that’s about?)

All this being said, it wouldn’t surprise me if, three years down the line, I decide to write a new post about how wrong I am in this one. So this is nothing definite, just something I am mulling over. But writing it down has helped me put my thoughts in order, and I hope reading it will help you too.


That’s it for today, coffee beans. What are some misconceptions you have had about your writing process along the way?

Crazy Hamster Wheel

If you’re a writer like me, chances are you suffer at least a bazillion mood swings a day. Constructing a novel is hard, editing is hard, and querying agents is even harder. This does not lend itself to an emotionally stable situation, and often I feel as though I’m fighting a constant battle against arrogance on the one hand and despair on the other. Some days I think I’m the greatest novelist ever; some days I believe I’m the worst. Let me show you how this plays out.

 

Drafting:  From the first page to the last, I flee the rabid monsters of blinking cursers, crowded schedules, and impending doom. During this time, I often wander around feeling like a toddler flinging paint at the wall and calling it art. Eventually, I tell myself, I should probably just grow up and get a normal job like bull fighting or yak farming. Of course, I have my moments where the words sing and the characters dance and I’m convinced I’ve landed a masterpiece. Those wonderful occurrences last about as long as a caffeine rush. (Note to self:  Is coffee a performance-enhancing drug?) At this point in the game, I am usually not anywhere near my high horse. But just you wait and see.

 

Edits—Round One:  Unlike other people, I don’t enjoy reading my unpolished work. I remember the vision I had for my story and the warm fuzzy feelings that cropped up along the way, but somehow none of those actually seem to have made it onto the page. Nothing of the genius survived the transition from fingers to screen—nothing of the wit remains. After all that hard labor, all those long nights writing by the light of the moon—exactly what have I accomplished? And as I stare at that ginormous, ignominious pile of goop, I toy with my chainsaw, wondering if there might not be a huge distinction between deleting my entire manuscript and saving the world.

By the time I get my act together and dive into that icky vat of words, I’m starting to feel more confident. After all, there isn’t any rush. Since I have no actual deadlines—aside from the ones I set myself—I can take all the time I need to tighten my writing as much as I like without fearing THE END OF THE UNIVERSE. Anyway, editing is where the party’s at. And I’ve reserved a date with the backspace key. Just imagine all the lines we’ll tear apart and the scenes we’ll erase. Oh, won’t it be magical?

Once I’ve finished this first round of edits, I send my manuscript out to my beta readers, heart thumping in anticipation, head spinning with the intoxication of success. I anxiously await replies, imagining the adoring phone calls and emails I’ll be answering all week. Within a few hours, even, they’ll have breezed through my novel, and they’ll beg to buy me Lamborghinis and European mansions. Folk will hang off my every word, and soon agents and publishers will telepathically learn of my skills. The talented genius who only needs to edit once. I can see the headlines already.

 

Edits—Round Two:  Within about a month, I receive the feedback, and of course I do a double take. Can it be? Can it really be? There are marks all over my handiwork, lines of red and blue—disagreements and confusion and SUGGESTIONS. I shiver, bite my lip. AM I GOING MAD? This is probably the worst part, the crushing of my stupid little dreams, the shame that comes with recognizing my naiveté. Obviously, I am a failure. Isn’t it plain I can’t write? I’ll never succeed since I can’t even recognize the clear problems everyone else notices immediately.

After the initial despair subsides, and after the coffee and the chocolate have had ample chance to become reacquainted in my stomach, I roll up my sleeves and dig in once more. Here’s where it gets both trickier and easier. I’ve already done most of the heavy lifting. Now, depending on the notes, my major concerns include fixing awkward wording, fiddling with character arcs, correcting inconsistencies, rewriting passages, adding scenes, and clarifying ambiguities. This draft is harder because I’ve already tightened the writing and started viewing the story as fixed. I balk at drastic changes, cringe at frightening flaws. The clay I am working with is beginning to dry, and now more than ever I’m racing against time. Every alteration I make, every idea I consider—I second guess them all a dozen times daily. I talk to myself and to my rat and to the wall. I procrastinate and play chess (I HATE chess) and draw pictures. Sometimes I cry. But as taxing as this part is, I find I love the challenge, the exhilaration of conquering and persevering.

Soon my bravado returns, and it brings friends. At this point, I start comparing myself with other, published writers. When I read, I edit their novels and laugh at their mistakes, snickering that I would never be so amateur as all that. They’ll be shining my shoes someday when I’m rich and famous. Bristling—glowing—with misplaced pride, I send my darling back to my beta readers, some new, some old. And I wait, certain that this time, they will find no fault. Meanwhile, I confidently reread swaths of my novel, basking in my success until HORROR OF HORRORS, I find a repeated word, an awkward sentence, a misplaced detail. I begin making plans to move to Morocco. Or Lithuania. Or New Zealand. I frantically fill out applications for jobs in sewer maintenance and snake wrangling.

 

Edits—Final Round:  After receiving feedback, freaking out, and plunging once more into the trenches of my novel, I find my confidence returning, slowly but surely. I tweak sentences, tighten dialogue, find snafus everyone missed. I burn a hole in my thesaurus when my brain explodes. Then I let the manuscript sit for several months while I pretend to be a normal person with normal hobbies like eating, and walking, and socializing. Eventually I realize this will not do, and I read my novel again, shrieking at all the nitpicky grammar problems that just leap off the page. At some point I consider kidnapping a published author and bribing them to fix my book. Instead I hunker down and get to work.

 

Home stretch:  Finally I’m ready to query literary agents. Tense and sweating, I hover over the laptop, staring at the cover letter I spent weeks perfecting, and I give a startled laugh at my blatant audacity. What on earth do I think I’m doing?

This feeling lasts about as long as it takes to click send, and then my old cocky self resurfaces, cackling all the way. In a few days, I think, I’ll have more offers of representation than there are hours in a month, and I’ll be chatting with agents all week trying to decide which lucky one to choose. In the end, I may have to use the dartboard method. Within the year, my book will be on shelves. I’ll make millions, of course—probably billions. Step aside, JK Rowling—you’re blocking my spotlight.

Then comes the onslaught of rejection letters (some personalized, others form) and the deadening silence. Reality sinks its teeth into my soul, and I whimper. What’s wrong with Little Miss Agent? How does she not recognize my genius? Even that one bright spot, that sterling moment when I unsuspectingly open my inbox and find a request for the full manuscript—even that tarnishes over the months of waiting and wondering.

In an effort to preserve my questionable sanity, I break ground on my next book. And so the cycle begins anew, this vicious yo-yo of Writerdom. This crazy hamster wheel.

Superiority Complex

Six days out of seven, I install myself in my easy chair with Adele, the laptop, and I whittle away at the remaining stamina in my wrists. From the way I jealously guard this time, you would think I’m in love. And to an extent, that’s true. But if you’ve followed my blog for more than a week, you probably know that storytelling isn’t all larks and roses. Unlike many writers, I do not enjoy the drafting process, the spitting of raw ideas onto paper. It’s when I get to untangling the jumbled mess that the fun starts. Delving into the unknown with no guide and no clue as to what should happen next is stressful. I’m not a visionary novelist who works with fifty pages of outline and ninety pages of notes. Sometimes I wish I were, but it’s more helpful to accept my limitations.

As for anxiety, that doesn’t mean I sit down at the computer and freak out. Granted, I could tell myself that the book I finished was a fluke and that I shouldn’t expect to do it again. Yet I don’t. In fact, I do expect myself to succeed, not because I think I’m brilliant or special or perfect, but because I know that the first book came into existence through hard work. No one sprinkled fairy dust over my computer; no one handed me the words. I had to chase down each and every one, even when it felt like banging my head against the wall for 389 hours would accomplish more in the end. Also, I’m stubborn, and I’m too proud to quit, which I’ve found can be the best motivation of all. No one is going to say that Manuscript Mountain conquered me. OH NO.

The problem with this confidence, though, is that it can very quickly lead to snobbery. Let me be honest with you; I struggle with that a lot more than I’d like to admit. It’s not wrong to be self-assured—in fact, it’s helpful—but it means walking a very fine line. Unfortunately, just like insecurity, arrogance is the enemy—the product and killer—of success. Sometimes I go through stages where I genuinely believe I am the best at what I do, so I criticize other writers and find fault with published novels and console myself that I would never make the same mistakes. Worse than that, I start to base my worth as a person on my assessment of my skill. On how well I’m liked. On how many people read my blog. As if Out of Coffee, Out of Mind is hugely important in the grand scheme of things. I promise I won’t stop blogging anytime soon (unless I die or the Doctor takes me away in the TARDIS), but I need to accept that if I were to go silent, life would continue without me. Maybe some readers would miss my voice. If so, I’m flattered. But whatever the case—you can be sure—the gap left in my wake would soon be filled by someone else.

If I base my happiness on something as fickle as success, then I am guaranteed to be disappointed. Guaranteed. In my own eyes, I will always be a failure. And I will forget why I started writing in the first place, why I fell in love with the craft, why I finish rough drafts despite their overwhelming flaws.

But there’s another aspect of arrogance that cripples. If I convince myself that I am perfect, then I will fail to see the ways in which I desperately need to improve. (This goes for normal life as well.) And I want to be gentle when I say this, because I know some of my readers are young writers, and I enjoy watching you gush about your projects. So let me be the first to say that excitement is by no means wrong, and I would never go back and tell my previous selves that they were mistaken to be thrilled with words. But have you ever met a proud parent who seems to see their child in a totally different light than anyone else? They coo about Charlie the angel even while little Charlie is lighting someone’s hair on fire.  Fantasy and actuality lock in hideous combat. It’s the same with writing. If I’m too enamored with my darling manuscript and too blind to its nasty habits, I will never have the necessary wherewithal to whip out the axe and the scalpel and go crazy. I will never accept when my characters are faulty, inconsistent, unreal, or out of place. Blinded by my precious, preconceived notions, I will miss what is actually on the page.

That’s not to say I don’t connect emotionally with my novels at all. But the most important bit I have learned over the years (aside from patience) is the ability to let go. When a story idea just isn’t as brilliant as you had hoped—even after you’ve given it an honest shot—let it go. When the scene you loved isn’t adding anything to the plot, let it go. When your dream agent rejects you (albeit very nicely) spam her (I meant to say, let it go).  

Eight days out of ten, I meet resistance. I feel dull, like my brain moved to Romania and left a decoy in its place. The music hurts my ears, but I need the music to concentrate. The laptop is too hot. The words won’t come. The literary agent has had my full manuscript for almost four months, and it seems like no one will ever get back to me. But that’s the rub. While a job can be pleasurable, it’s called work for a reason. As in relationships, you make a commitment to persist even when it isn’t fun anymore, even when it’s painful to fight against entropy, even when it’s easier to cut your losses and quit. When I was young, I had a choice. I could resist the editorial comments that said my writing lacked clarity and direction (it did), or my male characters were too much like old ladies (they were), or my driving forces weren’t evident (they weren’t). I could reason away really good advice and listen instead to the voice that I much preferred, the voice of my inner writer that said my critics weren’t as talented as I, that it wasn’t my fault they couldn’t understand the vision I had for my story. But now that I’m older, and especially now that I have the very definite goal of publication in mind, I do not have that luxury. If I want to improve—and I must—I cannot afford to rest on my laurels and spend my royalties before they’re earned. In fact, I have no business thinking of myself as anyone other than someone who is trying her hardest to do her best, nothing more.

So I’ve been working to cultivate a teachable mindset rather than a passive or stubborn one. (I just made that sound as easy as eating ice cream. Believe me, it’s not.) Of course, I will still recoil when I receive criticism, and I will always battle the urge to blame the reader, but in order to succeed, I need to recognize my faults and my limitations. Because I guarantee that I will never go far if I cannot take honest, unvarnished, painful opinions. In the meantime, it’s hard to fight arrogance in a job where you’re constantly expected to stand up for your own talents, where it seems you have to force people to take you seriously. Believe me, I get that.

But unfortunately, superiority complexes do not buy bread.