Writer Unboxed

Three weeks ago, the day before the deadline stipulated by my contract, I sent the manuscript of my fourth novel to my editor. Each time I begin a book, I set out believing that this time I’ll find the magic formula, the one that will catapult me to my rightful place among other published writers: brimming with pride and confidence in my craft, if not a single-digit Amazon ranking.

In reality, things follow a very different blueprint. The work often makes me grouchy and anxious. Moments of inspiration are few and far between. I pace, sweat, make deals with the devil, waste time prowling through bookstores envying other writers’ masterpieces. I procrastinate even as my deadline looms nearer, meting out the weeks, days, and finally the hours left with an optimism bordering on delusional. Three days left, and the epilogue’s not finished? Why not while away two days on the couch with a box of Hostess cupcakes, seeing what Oprah’s up to? Never mind that Day Three will be spent hunched in front of the computer in my pajamas tweaking commas and squeezing adverbs till they scream, till my back is cramped and my eyes are crossed.

In a way, it’s a relief knowing what to expect. Give me a deadline, and here’s how I’ll allot my time: two months avoiding the project completely (so beautiful, this not-yet-born book, unblemished and ripe with possibility!); eight months cranking out a first draft; another month letting it “age” (break out the cupcakes and the daytime television); then the last month foolishly, frantically revising the thing over and over again, sending it off with just hours to spare, watching teary-eyed as it sails into the fog like the last plane out of Casablanca. In some bizarre way, this method works for me. And I know that next time, no matter how lofty my goals for discipline and organization at the outset, I won’t do a single thing differently.

There’s always a sense of sadness at the end of a book, a blend of relief (it’s over!) and disillusionment (it’s over). If you’re lucky, there might also be a fleeting pang of accomplishment. But mostly, in the days after a deadline, you’re jolted by the terrifying certainty that you’ve just delivered the sorriest manuscript in publishing history, that the reason your editor hasn’t called you within hours of receiving it is because she’s too busy packing her framed photos and her Rolodex into cardboard boxes and calling everybody in the industry to rant about the writer who cost her her career.

If there’s anything I have learned after four books, it’s that, while these feelings will arrive as speedily and reliably as a delivery from FedEx, they’ll also pass. By understanding this, you give yourself permission to accelerate the process by zipping right through the self-flagellation stage into the giddy territory of “What next?” No matter the fate of my next book, no matter how much I might wish I’d written something better or even completely different, I know that sooner or later I’ll be back at the computer typing “Chapter One” onto a blank screen and telling myself that this, at last, will be the book I’ve always dreamed of writing.

Now pass the cupcakes.

Marsha’s just-completed fourth novel will be published next spring. Her next book, Heartbreak Town, is due out June 26 and available now for pre-order at Amazon.com.

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