Why This Novel is Important

(they say)

 

I never set out to have a writing career. The reason I tried writing a novel was that I knew I was a good writer; always have been, and I wanted not only a challenge, but a relaxing break from a job that was 50% stress and the other 50%, boredom. (FYI, extreme stress is worse than extreme boredom.)

Somehow I managed to complete that first novel. It had a decent premise, but its execution was subpar. I really took writing it seriously, though. I spent my daily work breaks on the walking path near my office thinking; deciding what would come next in the story; what should come next in the story. But for a plot that had a lot of promise, the novel turned out bland. I didn't know anything about story beats or any of that stuff. I thought that if I wrote the story well, everything would naturally fall into place. I even let one person read it ~ horrible mistake I've never made since. Let's just say she was underwhelmed by it.

Nevertheless, I queried agents, still believing a good writer could overpower any story deficiencies. Surely agents would see how good I was! It turned out they didn't see that. None of the hundred or so agents I queried could grasp my brilliance.

Once I landed back on earth, I resolved to keep trying. So I wrote another novel. It had an even better premise, I believed, than the first one. I loaded it with back story that went on for pages and pages, but all that info was important, right? I had two big subplots, which I learned were important to include. Good lord, in retrospect that novel was awful! Yet I dutifully queried it, and was met by silence.

Still, I didn't give up. My third novel was more fun to write. It had intrigue and crime and at least one interesting supporting character. But once again, my queries landed on deaf ears. 

With all three of those novels, my "editing" consisted of proofreading; making sure the grammar and spelling were correct. I didn't know anything about true editing. I didn't make one change to the first drafts. 

Admittedly, I never took the time to learn about novel writing. How hard could it be? Tell the story in a way that flows, and voila! Any imbecile could do it.

All those rejections convinced me to quit. I still knew I had "something", but whatever that was, it sure wasn't enough. 

The thing about whiling away one's time, though, is that you begin itching for something to do, so eventually I took a stab at a new story. I didn't approach it seriously. Frankly, I just enjoyed writing. In the process I learned that I wasn't a novelist; I was a "novella-ist". I hated subplots because they were superfluous; a distraction. The story unfolded pretty easily, and once I reached the end of it, I checked my word count and it was something like 29,000 words; too short (obviously) for a novel, but I liked it.

So I published it. And then I kept going, writing more and more novellas; some were quite good, a few of them were only so-so. But I published them all. I could write a novella in a couple of months, unlike the year or so I toiled over each of my novels. That kept me interested. There was always a new story to tell. 

Did those novellas sell? No, or yes, but barely. I might have reached my peak at about 42 purchased copies of one of them, and that wasn't even my best one. I never minded, really, that I wasn't a success, until I began minding. Maybe it was because I kept reading posts from authors who sold tons of books and I grew resentful. I was just as good, probably better, than they were! So, I got caught up in the marketing game. I refused to spend much money on marketing because I couldn't afford to, but I took a serious stab at it. When that didn't work I learned how to get ARC readers, which turned out to be a net minus. I received a minuscule number of reviews, with a couple of mean ones thrown into the mix. 

It took a long time for me to catch on that novellas don't sell, particularly women's fiction novellas. It wasn't me; it was the realities of the book market. That didn't exactly assuage my sense of failure.

Now, here I am. I don't think I feel like writing anymore. I've done it. I've done it for years now, almost ten years. That's about the same length of time my songwriting career lasted. There's nothing I can think of that has sustained me for longer than ten years. I can tell when I've reached my limit. The sad part is, I'm a much better writer now; now that I no longer care.

This novel is important because it will be my last. I don't want to go out on a low note. Success, to me, means being proud of my work. It's not about sales or pats on the back. If I manage to get five reviews, two of them will say, "I hated it." I won't care, because I won't be reading my reviews.

I've worked damn hard on this one, not that hard work means anything. What I should say is that I've studied and learned. I no longer make the same mistakes I made when I started writing. I tried to put everything I learned into practice. If, for example, the opening wasn't right (it wasn't), I tried one approach and then another. I cut scenes I really liked because they didn't fit. I learned that while a character's past often informs their actions, you can't bury readers under a crush of back story and expect them to keep reading. The only element I haven't changed (and won't) is my heavy use of dialogue. I'm firm in my belief that the dialogue accomplishes everything I wanted it to, and that the quirky characters in this story are worth hearing. 

I want this novel to take center stage on my website, so I can look at it from time to time and get a nice, warm feeling.

Nothing really matters except how I feel about myself. I'm very tough on myself, very insecure. I've always succeeded in my past avocations, but this one's been a hell of a fight. It's one I deserve to win.