Happy New Book Year

Every author has a rhythm, my agent once said. Mine happens to be that
about every three or four years, a new book is born. What you can't know behind the scenes, is that after every novel, I go through a separation and mourning period of about six months, in which I miss my characters so deeply it feels as if I've lost family members. Then there is another six months of just cruising, albeit at a lower level than I was during the writing process, during which I make quilts, clean house, (my goodness where did all that laundry and dog hair come from!?!?!) and make tamales or cherry pies for the freezer. I spend that time wondering why I never got anything done for the last year and a half, too.

Then at last, like a crocus sending up a tenuous shoot, the Muse awakens, and research books are purchased, trips to locations are planned. Sometimes Le Musette buys books with my credit card that I do not remember authorizing, and I find that she had something up her sleeve the whole time. I go willingly down the rabbit hole, drinking the mystery liquid in the bottle, delving for details and unsung heroes in history.

After another six months, a character will timidly open a door and peek into my subconscious, and if I allow it in, another, then another will show up. I know the cast is not complete, and some are rejected outright, but much like the story in the movie "The Man Who Invented Christmas," which plays up the creative process behind Charles Dickens's "Christmas Carol," gradually all the actors learn their lines, assume their places, and start playing out scenes. Driving becomes hazardous. My cooking becomes simplistic and meals often over-cooked. My conversations are sketchy at best, because while it may look as if I'm listening to someone I'm hearing Resolute hunting for Cullah in the woods, calling his name, and it is darn difficult to care much about someone else's crafting or leaky roof when my hunky hero is captured by soldiers and dragged away chained to a cart. A long speech or a boring movie is fertile ground for scheming villains to skulk through my mind.

Writing begins. Not tentatively, for unlike some authors, I seem to find an opening line which is the hook from which all else hangs, and while the entire book may be written and rewritten from beginning to end five to eight times, the first paragraph always remains. And then my Muse soars to higher altitudes where I am no longer in control, and she's forever darting right and left, pursuing a heroine's path, ripping out scenes where actions stall or go all wrong. This process can take two to three years because it is heavy with research. And then there's the glacial speed of modern publishing. Most recently I sent LIGHT CHANGES EVERYTHING to my editor, who promised to get back to me in eight weeks. So, sixteen weeks later I sent her a couple of emails. A phone call. Another. And another. Finally I got an email from her boss telling me she was no longer with the company and they'd assign me another editor soon - in six to ten weeks.

Then there are cuts, and deadlines, and the new editor also jumps ship for some other company. And the newer new editor doesn't like this change that the previous one did, and then she's gone, too. So the newest new editor has been handed something she didn't ask for but has to complete, and we begin - cut this sentence, cut this paragraph - chop this here, and that there. See, I've never been accused of writing anything too short. The manuscript for Resolute was a good 835 pages. But then when all is ready it's wait another six months for printing, cover art, and the all powerful marketing people to have "the" meeting. A date is set. And I sulk, depressed, because we're already into the plummet from the high, unsure of the result, unable to read it even one more time, unable to conceive that anyone on earth will like it. Pure misery.

Things begin to change. Reviews are good. No, great. We have a book. It feels out of control, like letting your sixteen year old drive alone for the first time. Too raw, too soon, too nebulous and untried. Naughty Musette smirks at me and says, "see? I told you," then she takes long walks and longer naps. If I try to argue she goes in the kitchen and makes tamales.