Co-Writing

Larry now refers to my co-author as "your other husband." 

He has a point. 

Most people write by themselves, alone in a room. The upside is that you're alone, and for those of us who enjoy our own company, being alone in a room works out great. No one interrupts to ask about the latest episode of a TV show you've never watched. No one borrows paper clips. No one goes on and on about a never-ending breakup or  a mother-in-law who doesn't get it. One of the things that shocked me when I took the G-man to his first playgroup was the stunning amount of small talk I was expected to generate for two straight hours. I was not equal to the task. We mommies gathered in the basement of a church with tons of toys and stood around talking. Women went into great detail about what their kids would and wouldn't eat, about real estate values, about finding a good contractor, about where they'd bought their shoes. They complained about their husbands. One woman talked endlessly and with great intensity about these people in a contest. She discussed their likes and dislikes and the feuds between the judges to a small clique of people who seemed very interested in the saga. I couldn't keep it all straight, mostly because I wasn't very interested. It was three months before I realized she was talking about the TV show "American Idol" and that Reuben and Clay were not people she actually knew.

My first few attempts to work with a co-author were similarly odd, and oddly suited to my communication style. The great thing about working with doctors is that, aside from the urge to heal, they very often don't like people very much. They don't chat. The first doctor I worked with would email me references of studies about statins or ACE inhibitors. Off I went to the library to look them up, read them, and fashion them into a chapter. After I had a handful of chapters, he would read them for me and make his comments via email. I spoke to him twice over the entire course of the project. The second doctor I worked with just dictated stuff to me over the phone. I would get these staccato bursts of information about sports injuries. Once, he did this while out to lunch with his family. That's right. I listened to the treatment for a dislocated shoulder and in the middle, he excused himself to order a tuna melt on wheat and to tell his daughter to sit up straight. The third doctor I worked with wanted to schedule regular phone calls late at night. I fought to stay awake and to listen to his heavily accented English while he went on and on about receptors inside of fat cells. Finally, I put the kibosh on these and just sent him chapter drafts to comment on. To my mind, these were successful working arrangements.

Now, I'm doing a different book, and the doctor I'm working with wants to be the co-author for real. So we have face-to-face meetings once a week, soon to be twice a week. We discuss every paragraph, and brainstorm paragraph ideas. During our meeting on Tuesday, we got stuck on one subhead and the information to follow it.  I started writing, and read aloud to him while I wrote. He picked up the thread and kept talking and I typed while he talked. Then he looked at a different part of the chapter while I cleaned it up and then read it to him. And it worked, and I marvel that it works, every time.

When we worked on the proposal together this past winter, he would call the house multiple times per week. Larry would hand me the phone and I'd rush off with my laptop behind a closed door to work on the chapter summaries or the overview or whatever. Also, we chat and laugh a lot. The other day I told him about my second cousin's little boy, who wore the same cheerleading outfit for four months straight. And about this pornographic mommie's blog I ran across last month. We were howling over that one. I know about his car troubles, his sister's baby, his vacation plans. This is some of what I've missed all these years by not working in an office.

Larry doesn't mind all this, and he's a bigger person than I am. When his co-workers call the house, I have often bristled. I feel invaded when they call, and a bit jealous when I hear him talking on the phone and sharing inside jokes with people I hardly know. I hope that will change now that I have my own working relationship. Okay, it's only one person, but it's a start.

Still Life with Editor

When Larry was still at that fancy pants magazine he used to edit, he liked called me up to complain about certain writers. He did this at least once a week. I got to know these writers based on his rants about them. I knew which ones who turned in single-source stories, which ones liked to copy out phrases from press releases into their stories, which ones liked to use words such as "artisan" and "hand-picked," and "iconic" to ill effect. I knew their writing because he would read me the sentences that offended him, and then he would read me the edited version so I could be impressed. And I was. 

Well, this one guy needed extra ranting. He had come to Larry with a bunch of top shelf clips. He'd written several times for a big glossy magazine, one that shall remain nameless here (except that one of the letters in the title was a "G" and another one was a "Q"), and had demanded $2.50 a word. Now Larry was sitting at his desk, looking at the results. This really expensive thoroughbred writer couldn't seem to lay his hands on a single fact. He couldn't complete a thought, couldn't match up the subjects and the verbs correctly, couldn't spell, and couldn't quite figure out where to put the commas, either. 

"Why aren't you a millionaire in this profession," Larry asked me. I had no answer for this. For days after, he would call me up and read me before and after sentences. I heard them while herding Sammie to the bathroom, while folding laundry, while cooking dinner. I learned to hate this writer.

Now Larry is at home. He is doing some freelance editing, and the word is out. He's getting calls from people who need a good line editor. And there is no one better. Truly. 

Mostly, he's editing me, but not on paper. I should be so lucky. Rather, he's editing our conversations. Yesterday, we walked the kids down to the center in that dead time between school and dinner. The G-man was on his scooter zooming ahead of us and then coming back. Larry asked if that was okay. I said, "Yeah, he roams further and further ahead. Then he comes back. He knows." Then I felt a nervous pang. "Farther," I said. 

"I was so totally going to correct you there," said Larry. Yeah, I know. (In fact, he doesn't read this or any blog because the sea of unedited copy makes his belly flip. He read it once, months ago, and then called me with a list of before and after sentences. I'm pretty sure I hung up on him. Then I made the changes he suggested.)

What's worse is that he edits the broadcasters during Red Sox games. And the ads. Turns out the modifier "only" is incorrectly placed in most television ad copy. Ask me how I know. Sometimes I get sucked in and ask him how he would rewrite this or that ad. Let me tell you, when you are in bed with your husband and the two of you are dissecting a sentence that was uttered in a Dunkin Donuts commercial from twelve hours ago, well that's a new brand of crazy.

Not Quite What I Was Planning

Hemingway once wrote a short story that was six words long. (For sale: baby shoes. Never worn.)

A couple of years ago, SMITH magazine held a literary contest, asking folks to submit a memoir in six words. The result is a slim volume of memoirs, called Not Quite What I Was Planning. Some are hilarious, some sound like potential titles for country songs, some fall a bit flat. But reading them is completely addictive.

"Bad brakes discovered at high speed." by J. Baumeister

"Found true love, married someone else." by B. Stromberg

"I still make coffee for two." Z. Nelson

"Savior complex makes for many disappointments." A Schubach

"Cursed with cancer. Blessed with friends." H. Davies (9 years old)

This is a good exercise, the attempt to sum up your life, so far, in six words. Some have floated the idea of trying to sum up the life of someone famous, such as the current president, in six words, and a few apt suggestions can be found on the SMITH mag website. (My favorite is: "Born on third base, stole home." Click here for more.)  The magazine is now taking submissions for its next volume of 6 worders. 

Book Questions III

Today is Larry's last day at work. He's down, of course, not because he'll miss the job so much, but because he'll miss the people at the job. He's been driving to this same building and working on this same magazine with these same people for just under ten years. He spends more hours per week with them than he does with me. This morning, I saw him tuck a couple of bottles of red wine under his arm on the way out the door. Top shelf stuff, too. There may be an impromptu celebration before the lights dim forever in that editorial department. Tonight, he wants us to go out to dinner, which probably means the restaurant with the talking moose on the wall. Minor thrill for the kids.

Today was also the day set aside for me to drive in to Boston to sign the book contract, a coincidence that pleased Larry to no end. On the way out the door, Larry asked if I was taking a special pen. No. He asked if I was sure. After heaving a sigh, I went to my bedside table and pawed through it to find the Parker pen Larry gave me a couple of years ago. At the fancy pants magazine where he works until mid afternoon today, pens are a seriously big deal. Some of the pens they've written about have jewels in them. They are handcrafted by artisans who draw inspiration from nature and wood nymphs and all manner of nonsense. These pens don't get stored in a shirt pocket. Oh, no. Instead, they rest inside a little sleeping bag that sits on top of a pedestal inside a jewelry box. No joke. The one he gave me is grey with no jewels or anything. But it does have a little sleeping bag and a plastic box that feels like leather. I think of it as a low grade luxury. 

So, the trusty co-authors sat down in a conference room to have the 20+ page document explained aloud paragraph by paragraph. These are the circumstances under which the publisher can terminate the agreement. These are the circumstances under which the publisher can hold you liable. These are the circumstances under which you can end up owing the publisher money. It's all very scary and depressing, and exciting and important, all at once.

And...we didn't sign it. 

We found a clause that wasn't right. In fact, it was really, really wrong. And no one knew what to do. Clearly, it had to be renegotiated. But how? So, we got in our cars and drove home. Or, I did. The agent figured it out. Typo. Clarifying language had been deleted by mistake. She got hold of the publisher who okayed changes over the phone, then she got hold of my co-author who circled the block and went back to the office and signed it. By the time she got hold of me, I was home and on the phone with a custom designer of helicopter interiors and wrapping up a discussion of carbon fiber headliners. (Don't ask.)

The pen now sits on the kitchen counter, waiting for the contract to come to suburbia.

Contract Blues

OK. The long-awaited contract did arrive in the agent's office. She called to give a run-down of the terms, which didn't take long. It seems that the primary advantage of working with a larger agency is that they've negotiated deals with all the big houses and they have those deals on file. So, they just go back to the last boiler plate and start with the best available terms that they have and work up.

That's the theory, anyway. Our agent wanted to double check the manuscript deadline, so we sat on the phone, me with my calendar and her with hers and actually counted out the months, plus two weeks on the end. It didn't quite match the deadline on the contract. We decided she should argue for ten more days. Hey, I'm all for more days. 

She said, "You don't want to blow this deadline."

I said, "We're not going to."

She said, "Because if you do, they can cancel the contract. They usually don't and they don't want to, but they can."

I said, "It'll be fine."

She went on to tell me that earlier this spring one of her clients had a manuscript deadline on the first day of the month. On the second day of the month he called her to tell her that he hadn't written a word.

That's right. Not one word.

I said, "Did you have him killed?"

She said, "The publisher wasn't very happy."

I said, "Can I have him killed?"

She said, "They ended up giving him an extension."

Well, that's just not right. 

Long, Long Day

Three different stories of mine were rejected yesterday. I opened the mail to find three self-addressed, stamped envelopes in which I found scraps of colored paper on which teeny tiny script detailed the vague regrets of a nameless editor. In one instance the mini-missive was signed "Editor."

Another editor, one with a name and my home phone number, called last Thursday with promises of an assignment, many assignments, really, and who promised to call with more details as soon as possible. I looked at the phone many times yesterday. No calls. None at all. 

Another editor has held one of my stories for two months now. No idea when it will run. I wonder if there's a problem with it, but there seems to be no way to ask. Sometimes that happens. Sometimes a story is liked, but not well liked. Sort of a "Death of a Salesman" thing. In that case the editors hold it until they have no choice but to run it. They bought it, and paid for it, but don't seem inclined to run it. And the people I interviewed hang in limbo with me. What a yummy feeling that is.

Larry has revealed that he has a medical situation that may require surgery, and our healthcare goes away at the end of the month. 

The long-awaited book contract has yet to arrive. Yesterday we co-authors got a note from our agent saying, "I'm going to call and check on this." To which my co-author responded, "Was it all a dream?" Don't even say it, buddy.

A chapter of a different book I'm editing was sent off to the author last week and has come back with a screaming note about how I've ruined his text. He insists, "This must be fixed." Yet another author is fuming because I changed his subheads. Subheads! No joke.

In all the hours of the day, I didn't do any of my own writing. Not one word. That's a failing all its own.

Book Questions part III

Our meeting with the purchasing editor went perfectly, particularly because she started by buying us a big lunch and concluded by marching us into a room with lots of marketing people who had eyes, and questions, only for my co-author. I got to stay mum and take notes, as it should be. He's got to promote the thing afterward. He's going to be answering questions from strangers for years to come. In this context, I'm just another pretty laptop. So, he answered his questions smoothly and with much charm, and everyone was really impressed by him. Bravo! Then we all stood up and 7 people handed us business cards. The online marketing person, the publicity person, the publisher, the associate publisher, the head of the imprint. On and on. One of them turned to me on her way out and said "Great to meet you." I agreed. She said, "You've got a lot of writing to do." I agreed again. And the meeting ended with hugs all around.

Out on the sidewalk, we co-authors scheduled a meeting to get started on the writing part. And he said to me, "Do you think we'll have to come back to New York often?" I thought, "Oh, honey, no." Secretly, I'm wondering if we'll ever see those people again. We'll talk to them, sure, and in a year from now, we'll hear from them plenty. Still, I have friends who've never met editors they've worked with for many years over multiple projects. I've worked with an editor at Worth for four years and I've never once laid eyes on him.  I have friends who've never met their agents in person. I had to say to my co-author, who couldn't be a sweeter guy, and who works in a profession that demands face-to-face encounters, that this is really unusual. Highly unusual. And it speaks to the pressure that's building already.

Book Questions, part II

We have a meeting in New York on Monday to meet the purchasing agent, in part as further proof that we co-authors exist. This is a version of all the meetings we had scheduled with all of the publishing houses before we settled on one place (or, rather, they settled on us). At this meeting many, many questions will be asked and answered. It's kind of like having a first date after the wedding. Having taught in Chinatown, I know what I'm talking about here. As awkward as it sounds, these things do sometimes work out.

This will be a large meeting, or a series of them in which we talk at length with the editor about the direction of the book, and then we'll meet everyone on the "team." We've been told that it is an "excited team." I suppose we co-authors making the trek to NYC are to be known as the "nervously excited team." Maybe we're all nervous. I'm working away at an expanded outline. And another short outline, too, as an extra security blanket. And I'm packing a list of discarded book titles. We've already been put on notice that our provisional title isn't right. We need to generate a list of alternates on which the marketing people can work further. There is also talk of generating a website/blog for the book-to-be. A lot of issues have to be discussed even though they won't become relevant for months, maybe even a year from now. A book like this can't be just a book, it must be a marketing force. It must be armed with special powers, for which we need to be weaving spells now.

My first question while booking train tickets was this: Is another trip to The Seafarer a possibility? Ticket for one, front and center? One last time before it closes in a little over a week? (Yes, I am that crazy.) Can I see my five thespian boyfriends one more time?

Not only did Larry not laugh at this, he didn't even say no. Instead, he said, "Sure. Why not?"I didn't have to flash him even one bogus reason. Not one painful attempt at a brogue. So, I now have a train ticket that gets me into the city just in time to scurry to the theater for the Sunday matinee. And that leaves time enough after to finish the outline in the hotel before the pre-game co-author confab over dinner at which we can work out the jitters.

Mapmaking

The kids are into maps these days. Garret found one in the back seat of my car and now studies it everywhere we go. It's one of those thick, wire-bound tomes and it details the roads in every town in eastern Massachusetts. The edges have tattered over the years and it's sadly out of date. Untold subdivisions are still represented as green fields. Newly widened thoroughfares are still marked as tiny roads. Yet, to Garret, it holds some secrets and he seems to feel that if he studies it long enough, all will be revealed.

Now, Sammie has picked up the habit, as well. She draws maps everywhere. Hers have people in them, and they come with stories, but they are maps all the same. From them, she dictates the directions to grandma's house, to swimming lessons, to the store. On the way to the doctor's office yesterday, she told me how to get there. "First, we go this way," she said and lifted her finger from a sheet of paper on which she'd drawn lots of smiling people to point left out the window. "Now we go straight for a little while, but up and down some hills." She was very serious about the whole thing. Mostly right, too.

This study and interest reminds me of the topographical maps I studied when I was learning to fly. I had to look at them before a cross country flight in order to get an idea of any obstacles I might encounter and at what altitudes. And then I had to find them in the air. I remember flying and looking from the map to the ground. Where's the tower? Where's the highway? Where are the railroad tracks? Where's the little lake shaped like a horseshoe? And finally, where's the runway? You wouldn't think there'd be time for that, but there is. In a little Cessna 152, there's ample time to look at the ground and the map to figure out where you are. In fact, it's the only way to get anywhere.

In writing, maps are called outlines. Unfortunately, this label unfairly robs them of all their sexiness. An outline, or a story map, contains all of a story's signposts, all of the markers you need to pass before you're done. They are the only way I can get anywhere in a story. I write them constantly, sometimes while reporting. In a bowling alley at 2 a.m. I wrote out a crude story outline, just to make sure I'd gathered enough sound. I've written them on old envelopes and on the backs of grocery lists. I've written them while writing a magazine story, just to make sure I'm doing what I think I'm doing. I've written them after I've finished a book chapter, to figure out where I got lost. I've used them to help me think through a short story, even though no fiction writer I've ever met admits to using outlines. And now, I'm doing one for the book, in part to keep the anxiety at bay, in part to figure out what's here and what's not. Actually, I'm doing several. One detailed map for the whole text, then another one with just chapter titles and possible titles. There will probably be a third one with concepts but no anecdotes. 

I just wish mine were as pretty as Sammies, with all her smiling faces.

Names and Faces

So, the phone rang this morning and it was a friend of mine calling from work to say that she found the book deal mentioned in the Globe. It's in the section usually reserved for Tom Brady and Matt Damon sightings. And chefs. All chefs get mentioned in this section of the paper, in bold face. Poor Boston. Our winters are long and we run on a bit of a celebrity deficit. 

(Which is why the doings of suburbanite authors can sometimes sneak in under the radar.) 

My co-author called and said, "I feel like a dancing bear." To which I said, "Honey, you haven't even begun to dance. Wait 'till you're hawking this book at a PTA meeting in Canton." And, p.s., stop dancing. We've got writing to do.

Book Sale Questions

So, as the euphoria fades, several questions surface about a book that's about to be written. 

The agent has questions; the purchasing editor has questions. I have questions.

My first question is about sending flowers. One of my friends who has sold several books always sends flowers to his agent after a deal. I said to my husband, "Do you think I should do this?" He says, "Flowers? Doesn't she get a commission?" Well, yes. Yet, to me it still sounds like a nice thing to do.

My second question is: When? When does the next thing happen? I remember writing my first magazine story and finding out that it would be slated for an issue six to eight months later. This made the publication date fall in the next calendar year. I thought, "That's too long to wait. My life will be over by then." Very dramatic. Now I know that everything in publishing takes a really long time. Still, I want to know. How long do I have to write? How long until it's published? How long until we get paid? There's no real point in asking any of these questions because no one has the answers, really. It's true.

The editor had questions right away, and these must be answered. We had a phone meeting with her on Monday, in part to prove that we exist, and she made it clear right away that she is smart and passionate about the book. These are new sensations for me. Magazine editors are usually smart. However, their passion about any one article comes and goes. Sometimes it doesn't exist at all. Meeting someone by phone who is all over this project, and who is conversant on every point in the book proposal was just stunning. Or do I mean daunting? It's a totally new level of scrutiny.

Her second questions were: What word length are you thinking about, and how soon can you finish? We had been warned about the second question. She wanted us to say six months. We wanted to say nine months (which is still writing at a high clip). We settled on 7.5 months. OK. Compromise is good. (Plus, embedded in this discussion is her understanding that writers always blow deadlines. When you pick a steep deadline, it allows you to kick the writers down the shame spiral quickly, meaning there is a chance in hell of them meeting the real deadline. I've been an editor. That's the only play on the board.) Also, we will meet this deadline or I'm pretty sure our agent will have us killed. 

Next question. How long? I guessed 40 to 50K words. She said, "That's really short. How about 75K?" And I found myself saying yes out loud, while internally saying "holy, holy sh*t," over and over again. My math may be fuzzy, but I'm thinking that's about 10K words per month of finished copy, or about one feature story per week, every week, between now and November.

 

As my friend, Jack, would say, "Welcome to the NFL."

Indecent Proposal 7

Word came in today that the book proposal is in the hands of 21 editors.

Now, we wait.

Publication!

Got an email yesterday from the creative nonfiction editor of the Pinch saying they would like to publish my essay, "How to Work a Locker Room" for the fall 2008 issue.

Yay! 

Royalty Check = Reality Check

Two big things happened yesterday. OK, more than that because life is a dynamic and magical mystery tour. Too many things happened yesterday to recount...

For one, I was driving to teach last night and watched a giant harvest moon come up out of the clouds. This while inching along behind an SUV on Rte. 9. Still, I thought, "How romantic." I did. I looked at that big shimmering disc with all the little spots visible on it and thought that a person really could worship the moon. 

Also, Sammie turned 4. Finally! She was so thrilled. We sent popsicles with her to preschool in the morning, and in the afternoon she came home wearing a paper crown like she was born to it. Actually, she came home carrying a spare crown. I don't know how she talked her teachers into that. But I'm pretty sure she could talk the Pope out of his crown, if she ever met him.

In the morning I went off to teach in Mattapan. More on this later. Twenty nine senior citizens showed up to begin writing their memoirs. During a break, I recounted Sammie's birth, the labor pains, the whole thing to Sonya, who works at Grub and who was helping out with the class. I can't explain why I did this, except to say that some of the stretch marks you bear from having children are in your brain and they cause you to do incredibly rude things, such as retelling a birth story four years out to people who can't possibly want to hear it, but who are too nice to say so.

But, one of my favorite bits of that story is when I'm having an email exchange with a doctor. This is the guy with whom I was writing a book at the time. We were finished, really, and were answering all the queries, good ones, from the copy editor. But each one of these queries reminded the doc of all the technical (boring!) stuff he wanted to add to the text. And he was going on and on about how we had to change chapter five to include all this stuff about the sympathetic nervous system. I remember answering him while having pre-labor contractions. Really reasoned arguments and all, about not boring the absolute bejesus out of the reader, but he was insisting. And I finally got fed up and wrote something like, "Look, I'm kind of having contractions here; can we just move this along?" And then I realized that I hadn't actually seen him in the past year, because his practice is in New York, and hadn't actually mentioned the pregnancy at all. I know this sounds weird, but it never came up. He's a great, really smart guy. I liked working with him. We just never chatted. That was probably sort of a mean way for me to break the news, but I was really, really pregnant at that point, and the hormonal toxicity was no match for the little slice of emotional stability I had left. 

Plus, it's a really funny story now. Can't be sorry about that.

Came home from Mattapan to find what in the mailbox? My latest royalty check from that book. I'm not going to reveal how little I was paid to write that 300 page book, because it's too shameful. However, I will say that I have had some nice mid-three-figure royalty checks from this book. OK, only one or two of those, and a couple more in the low three figure range. I don't complain, because getting any royalty check under any circumstances is like finding money in the street. Think about it; the work is already done and gone and forgotten. The pain of writing the book is like a labor pain. I can't really remember it. 

I opened the envelope to find that it's in fact a "royalty statement." The check is supposed to come under "separate cover." This directly from the accounting firm. OK. But the amount is priceless: $8.81. Almost enough to take myself out to lunch. Almost. 

I think I'll go put on one of Sammie's crowns.

Indecent Proposal 4

First thing that happened when I landed back in Boston after the bowling extravaganza was to get edits on the proposal from the agency. Multiple co-author confabs over the weekend, including one following the Super Bowl, yielded revisions that went back to the agency today. Fingers crossed all around.

Indecent Proposal

Draft two of the endless book proposal went out to the co-author today. 24,000 words. 76 pages. Will soon convene the co-author meeting, to be followed by the co-author/agent meeting. Hope this will be followed in a few weeks by the co-author/agent/editor meeting. I became a writer to get away from meetings. How did this happen?

THE EXERCISE: Take the rest of the freaking day off. Take the kids out to lunch. Forget everything until tomorrow.