I wrote a novel this fall. Well, I wrote the first draft in the fall, and then I revised it—sentence by sentence, all the way through—six times during the winter. It's my first novel. It's finished.
So now what?
Last week I sent the sucker out to a publisher's first book contest. Since then I've been harried by doubts—which I try to choke down like so many meatballs rising in my gorge after a heavy Italian meal. When I wrote the first draft it was more than 50,000 words long. Now it's less than 50,000. So I look at it and think, Is it too short to be a "novel"? The events occur over the course of five days, and the whole narrative is told from the first-person p.o.v. of a 13-year old boy. Structurally, therefore, it's clearly a novella. But a long novella? Does that make any sense? Who the hell will publish this abberration?! And so on.
I'm starting to write another novel this month. It will be longer. Last February (2006), I quit my so-called career lecturing in American literature to become a full-time writer. Desire trumped fear. Actually, my adoring wife (spouse, life partner, etc.) pushed me to take writing seriously and quit wasting my time in "real" jobs. I listened to her. Now I start work at 8 AM and write until she gets home at 4:30 PM. This has been going on for many months, and there ain't nothin' in print yet, y'all. Maybe I should stop using words such as "ain't" and "y'all" in my query letters.
Perhaps I'll teach again after I have a few manuscripts in the rejection rotation. I don't know. One thing I realized: I loved, absolutely and without reservation, the feeling of putting this first novel(la) together. John Gardner said one does not write merely to publish, but for glory. Well, ok, I feel good about the thing itself. The funky architecture of it, how obdurate it now seems—as if the story always existed in just that form. It's a peculiar sort of glory, and it's utterly insular—though better than spending your days masturbating in a dark room. Someday, at least, you can show people the results.
7 comments:
You may not know this yet, as a recent initiate to all this newfangled technology, but there's a certain prestige gained by dropping the first comment on an opening site/page. So, of course, my comment has nothing to do with your peevish writerly concerns, but exists solely to announce my savvy to the outer world, feebly represented here by your meager electronic traffic.
Heh.
Welcome to the game! May the best blog win.
I've linked you:
acookiefullofarsenic.blogspot.com
Which, of course, is not to underestimate the glory of masturbating alone in the dark. Not that any of us do this...
Speaking of masturbation, has anyone seen the new Scarlett vid with Justin Timberdick? Someone on the superficial.com said that it's "basically the story of Scarlett and my weiner." I would extend that to the gentler sex as well.
We're going to have to compare Asenath's with GeoffreyCrayon's revision exploits.
Jesus Christ, you people. I come home from work and go through my usual blog roundup and on blog after blog, it's all about masturbation today.
Fuck, people, just go knock one out and get it over with. Sheesh.
PS - Welcome to the internet, Andrew. I bet you weren't counting on it getting this dirty this quickly.
It's all part of the hazing.
First- keep saying ain't and y'all- quintessential americanisms (just stay away from "chief" as it apparently raises ire) Second- lecturing steals people's souls, keep writing. Third- am reminded of the way Faulkner had to famously correct the byline of Go Down Moses after the first publishing- some dumb-ass publisher had the gall to call it a series of short stories and good ole' Bill got pissed and insisted that it was a novel, a point he wanted to drive home on the cover. The point, don't worry about what it is, just keep writing. you rock, by the way.
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