Writer Unboxed

This time last week, I was standing in the middle of Times Square in New York, screaming into a cell phone at my brother back in Austin as neon flashed and horns blared and tourists surged around me. The trip was both more stressful and more rewarding than I expected. Finding myself in a room full of individuals who’ve been hand-picked to make my forthcoming book a success was a novelty for me, a heady and somewhat surreal experience, especially for a small-town girl from Texas. I arrived home three days later, planning to sleep for 48 hours and then leap back into my half-finished fourth novel, to channel the exhilaration of my trip into a brilliant rebirth of effort.

Ah, but the best laid plans . . .

At ten A.M. the morning after my return, the copyedited manuscript of my third novel landed on my doorstep via FedEx, accompanied by a one-week deadline. I dusted off my Chicago Manual of Style and found my colored pencils, and was all set to work after a routine check of email. There I found a message from my editor’s assistant. The copyright permission I’d obtained from a Nashville songwriter to reprint lyrics from one of his songs in the novel’s epigraph was insufficient; forms from two additional entities would be necessary.

The manuscript was put aside; a flurry of phone calls and faxes began. One person I needed to speak with was out of the office, another’s fax machine was on the fritz. I picked up the manuscript again, read a few pages, stopped to answer another call. By eight o’clock that evening, I had one of the forms I needed and had made it halfway through the copyediting. Any thought of my novel-in-progress had been relegated to a burner so far back, I wasn’t sure I could even see the stove.

Before I was published, I don’t recall hearing any writer mention balance. I’m on my third go-round now, and I’m still caught off guard by days like the one I just described, in which vast chunks of time are consumed by red tape and soul-sucking details. It sometimes makes me wonder why I ever wanted to be a writer in the first place. All those beautiful ideas, those elegant turns of phrase—what do they have to do with proofreaders’ marks or signatures on various legal documents?

A lot, as it turns out. Because publishing, like everything else at which one attempts to make a profit, is a business. The most successful published writers, I believe, are the ones who learn to take interruptions in stride and are able to keep their imaginations glowing steadily, if faintly, in the background while they juggle website maintenance and queries from publishers, fan mail and permission forms. The same’s true for aspiring writers as well, who must manage jobs, family obligations, the minutiae of daily life along with their craft. The common denominator among us all, what keeps us going, is that the story’s finally, always, the thing.

In New York, my agent and I strolled through the old four-story Barnes & Noble downtown, more books than I’ve ever seen under one roof. Back home, throughout that day of frustration and distraction, I found myself thinking of all the sweat and tears that went into those books, the strings that were pulled and the cogs turned to put each and every one of them on the shelves. I reminded myself how lucky I am to be part of such a magical, mysterious industry, the intermingling of art and commerce.

Then the phone rang. I sent yet another fax. And I sat down to finish copyediting my manuscript, blowing all the while on that small but determined flame.

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