“If you are at the moment struggling with a book, what you should ask your self is, Do I really care about this particular set of characters, this thing that I am doing? If you do, then nothing should deter you. If you are doubtful about it, then I’d turn to something else. I knew, in the case of Charlotte, that I cared deeply about the whole bunch of them. So I went ahead.”
Letter from E. B. White to Dorothy Joan Harris, June 28, 1972, Letters of E. B. White, Revised Edition, Martha White, editor.
I have been at work for over two years on the draft of a novel, my first attempt at such a thing. On occasion, I turn to some other writing, but have always returned to the novel after whatever break I’ve felt was necessary. It wasn’t until I read the above quote that I realized why I was so persistent, because the quote makes exquisite sense. My characters mean something to me; so much so that one of them came to me in a dream before I was finished writing the first draft to suggest an ending that I have retained through all of the subsequent revisions. In the process of making myriad revisions (at least eleven major revisions, and several additional sectional revisions), I still find that I enjoy the characters and their ever-evolving stories.
My enjoyment of the characters isn’t a narcissistic affair. I don’t enjoy them because I created them; I enjoy them because I find them interesting and each revision has revealed another episode of, or a deeper meaning to, their lives and thinking. They seem as alive to me as many of my acquaintances do, and are still able to tell me, during each re-working, much more about themselves or teach some lesson about an aspect of life that I have yet to conquer. I am learning from them just as they draw their lives from me.
The result has been the creation of a strange relationship. It is not a paternal one, for they seem to exist alongside of me, not because of me. It is more a fiduciary relationship – one that has created a personal obligation for me to tell their stories since they don’t exist outside of the pages I have created. My obligation is of the moral variety – they have nurtured me through my first two years of retirement by giving it meaning and direction, and therefore I must allow others to become aware of them and the meaning of their experience.
This obligation has extended to my recently hiring a developmental editor to review my work, for while I have confidence in my copy editing skills and in my ability to write interesting descriptions, I have less confidence in my ability to tell a riveting story on paper. I have found this process difficult, from the early efforts that involved far too many words and much too much didacticism, to the later stages of deleting entire sections that, upon first writing, had seemed vital and important. And even after all of my own editing, I suspect the editor will have a lot to say about the number of words I’ve used and what I believe to be a key chapter that is entirely didactic. But if John Steinbeck could get away with didacticism in every other chapter of The Grapes of Wrath in order to make the Depression a living, breathing character, why can’t I do the same for the Vietnam War in a single chapter?
Your answer probably will be that I am not John Steinbeck. Of this, I am fully aware, and have no pretensions to be his modern equivalent – or the equivalent of any other author, living or dead. Many of them, however, have instructed me through my constant reading of their work. The lessons given by some have been sustained and deep, for I collect their works with an eye toward reading everything I collect. Whatever writing lessons I’ve had resulted from my reading, for I have no formal training in writing fiction – only the extent and breadth of my reading, and the drafting lessons learned from 40 plus years of writing spare, clear contracts meant to achieve clarity of purpose and obligation; contracts which have yet to yield anything approaching litigation among the parties to them (knock on wood, since the statute of limitations has yet to run on every contract I drafted while in practice).
This training, however successful it may prove to have been, was delightful. I enjoyed creating the legal worlds my clients required, and enjoyed even more the untold thousands of hours of reading literary fiction as well as the collateral joy of finding first editions of their authors’ works in the nooks and crannies of every book store – real and digital – that I have ever visited. I can only trust that the training amounted to something, but I have enough faith in what I have learned to have hired an editor to assist me in bringing my characters to life on the printed page.
Hiring an editor certainly doesn’t guarantee publication. It may move the process of finding a publisher or agent along just the tiniest bit since I will be able to report that an independent edit has been undertaken. But finding an agent and ultimately achieving formal publications still seems the mug’s game I earlier reported. Nothing has happened to change my mind about that conclusion, not even the efforts of well-meaning friends to help me through the process.
So why spend the money on an editor? There are two reasons. First, I undertook this effort to see if I was capable of doing something I’ve long wanted to do, and the hiring of an editor seems a logical extension of the process. After all, If I didn’t believe in myself enough to spend the money for a professional review, how serious could I be? As my mother spent her entire life telling and teaching me, nothing is worth undertaking if you aren’t prepared to give all of yourself to it.
The second reason is, of course, my obligation to my newest friends, those of the printed page. They wish to be heard and it is up to me to make that happen. And while I cannot issue commands in the manner of Captain Picard or wave a wand as Gandalf does, I can keep trying to fight my way through to publication. While the process is not nearly as enjoyable as the writing itself, it is worth undertaking it in order to fulfill my obligations to them.
Besides, I am quite likely to be reminded of the twin values of humility and patience while undergoing the process, so I will lose nothing in the attempt.
