How I write a book

I thought I'd give an overview of how I write a book. Like any creative pursuit, there's no right way or wrong way. There's the way that works for you. Or me.

This is mine.

How it starts

I get an idea. It could be completely random, or inspired by something I've read. With Songbird, I read in a bio of Henry VIII that he once bought a child for the royal choir, and off I went. With my current project, A Wider World, it features a secondary character from Songbird, who, after that book was submitted to the publisher, decided to speak up and say he hadn't gotten a fair shake, and he wanted to explain himself. I listened.

Below is how I went about writing A Wider World. The numbers in parentheses are the word count when the draft was completed.

First Draft (134,000 words)

Some writers can write and edit at the same time, or write something, come back the next day to edit, and then keep on. My problem is that I enjoy the editing process, so I get lost if I do this. My first drafts, while not garbage, are pretty rough. For the most part, I don't write in linear fashion. I try to write the beginning, at least the first few chapters, to establish my characters and what's happening. (The events may change later, but I need to get them down).

From there, I try to write in order, but if I'm stuck and can see another scene clearly, I'll write that and then try to link the scenes together later. By the time I've written the first third of the book, I know the ending. If I'm feeling really clear, I'll write the ending, and give myself something to work toward.

The first draft of A Wider World took me about 8 months, and part of the reason it went that quickly is I was working with a world already developed in the first book. I needed to research specific things, but I don't always research as I write. There'll be a sentence like "Hawkins and I sat down to a meal of [whatever people of that level of society would serve unexpected guests]" and I'll keep going.

Second Draft (128,000 words)

This is the fun part, where I fix the structure of the book - plot, chronology, cross-checking history, fleshing out characters who are a bit transparent, doing research to fill the holes I've left. Second draft is heavy lifting and rearranging, but by the end, it gives me something that has the shape of the idea I had when I started out. This draft took me about 1.5 months.

Third Draft (120,000 words)

Cutting, shaping, and molding. This is the round where the book loses some serious weight, where I read it to see how many times I've mentioned the same thing (the problem with writing out of order is including necessary information whenever it seems necessary - but it's not necessary every time. I just won't know that until later). I also remove excess dialog tags, filter words (knew, realized, felt, etc.) and other bits that, while clever, only make me happy and do nothing to advance the story.

Another thing I've noticed with early drafts is that I hit the end of a scene or a chapter, and then I tend to dribble on for another paragraph or two, summing up. Those paragraphs are never necessary, and I can remove a lot of excess just looking for those. This draft took about another month.

Fourth Draft (hoping for 118,000 words)

This is where I am now, and this is where I read the book aloud, to see how it flows, to listen for repetitive words or words that need to be swapped for ones that sound better. This is a faster round than any of the others, because it's really just the final polishing before it gets submitted to my publisher for their editors to give it a once-over. I'm hoping to have this finished by early June, but my reading aloud may be slowed by the fact that lawn care on my block seems to be near-constant and I can't always hear myself think, much less read.

With Songbird, the publisher's suggestions were mostly about removing Britishisms and comments on my abiding love for the em-dash, but we'll see this time, because Songbird had been worked on for so long that if it was my child, it would be accruing student debt. A Wider World has been a much faster process, because I've learned that I can do it.

So that's it. That's how I write a book. At least until next time, when I'll probably turn the procedure completely upside-down.

Pandemicrafting

From talking to friends and keeping up with others on social media, I've noticed that our current situation (quarantine, lockdown, or whatever you want to call it) has either stopped creativity in its tracks or it's hit the accelerator. For me, that's definitely been the case.

I've been writing a ton, deep into the third draft of my next Tudor book, and I recently made a 4' x 4' quilt for the loveseat where I sit and do a lot of my reading and writing.

Let me say up front, I've never been a quilter. And while this turned out well, and I'm really proud of it, I doubt I'll ever make another one. It's a Log Cabin quilt, obviously, and my favorite part is that all the front fabrics are secondhand, and locally sourced (sidewalk sale, town thrift store, donation from a neighbor). The batting was on hand for microwave bowls, but I don't need to make any more of those right now becase there are no craft shows for me to sell them. I did splurge and buy 1.5 yards of backing fabric, but I'm using the remnants from that in another project, so it's all good, and no waste.

This is the first patchwork project I've attempted where I followed a plan and actually tried to be precise. And it more or less worked. There are a few blocks that don't line up perfectly, but good enough is good enough. The perfect, as they say, is the enemy of the damn thing ever getting finished. (My last quilted project, a much simpler effort that is on our bed, took me 17 years because I messed up and shoved it in a bag until I got over being mad at it).

This, with waiting for the backing fabric to arrive , and crawling around on the living room floor sticking it together with far too many safety pins, took about 2 weeks. The quilting is all done by machine, because I will never be that dedicated to handwork, especially of the kind I can't see. The binding was hand sewn down on the back because that seemed easier than trying to line it up perfectly and run it through the machine.

Another reason this is my first and last quilt: anything bigger would not fit comfortably in either my sewing machine or my workroom. I caused several avalanches by trying to maneuver far too much fabric in a cramped space. Bad enough I have to clean up the scraps and thread tails I leave everywhere; having to excavate the floor after knocking over a stash pile is not the workroom fun I had in mind.

So here it is, PandemiQuilt 2020. Just in time to not want to curl up under it and read. Next year, quilt. Next year.

This will never get old

Book reviews are important, as I've said before, and I'm happy with every one I get - even the funky Goodreads review that called the second half of Songbird "tedious melodrama." (She still gave it three stars, so...)

But this morning I woke up to a review from the Discovering Diamonds book review blog, and this one - well, cue the music for my happy dance!

It's such a wonderful feeling to get a positive review from readers who "get" the book, and it's a huge compliment to me, as a writer of historical fiction, when they say "what I enjoyed was how those difficulties were based on problems which arose from the historical setting. No one here steps out of their period, even for a second. Their attitudes and their circumstances are very 'Tudor', but within that, of course, there is scope for people to behave in very different ways."

You can read the full review here, if you're so inclined. I might see you there - I've already gone back and read it twice. This is a feeling I hope never gets old.

Another Change

Change is good. I keep telling myself that. And I have to keep mentioning it here.

One upcoming change to the blog - because of this whole author-career-buy-my-books thing, is that I need a mailing list. For a newsletter. And also for cool things like recruiting advance readers for my next book.

What I'm going to try to do - and try is the operative word, because me and technology aren't the best of buds - is to move the blog over one tab, and have a landing page with a signup for the newsletter. That's ideal, because those of you who want to sign up can do so, and then move over one tab (or bookmark it) to get to the words. Those who don't want to sign up can do the same, minus that whole pesky signing-up thing.

If that doesn't work, there might be a pop-up form. I don't want the pop-up, and I'm pretty sure you don't either, so if everyone can just light a candle or cross fingers or something that I can do this without turning the blog upside down, I'd much appreciate it.

About the newsletter, if you're interested. Monthly, at least for now, because not a lot is going on to require more frequent contact. Progress reports (with snippets) from the work in progress. Random personal chit-chat from me (aimed at people who don't read here, but I'll try not to duplicate myself). Mention if there are any special deals on my book - the audio book will be coming out sometime in the near-ish future, and people might want to know. And the advance reader deal - I'm going to need a few brave souls to volunteer to read the next book before it's ready for publication.

Doesn't sound awful, does it? Hopefully not. I've got the account set up, now I'm just doing the fun stuff, like making a header graphic and figuring out what to call it.

EDITED: It worked! Here's the signup link, plus a permanent one alongside:

Sign up now for book news, progress reports, and special offers!

Thank you!

You have successfully joined our subscriber list.

Dad's turn

Dad at probably age 10-ish. He was the kneeling
kid, bottom left.

It's not father's day, either, but yesterday would have been my dad's 108th birthday. He was born on April 18, 1912, not long after the Titanic went down - which, as a child, always made the Titanic seem real because it couldn't have been that long ago.

My dad was 52 when I was born, my mom was 32. He'd been the youngest of 12; she was an only, saddled with step- and half-siblings at 10. He wanted kids; she didn't.

They had one. I was the center of his universe, and he was the center of mine. Mom minded that, a bit.

He had a lot to do with me becoming a reader, and eventually, a writer. Mom did, too - she was always reading, and I figured out pretty young that there was something inside those book covers that was more interesting than real life. My dad wasn't much of a reader. He left school in 6th grade, and while he could read, it wasn't easy for him. Because he thought a child should be read to, he "read" to me every night, from a book of fairy tales open on his lap.

An early Easter picture

I didn't learn until years later that he was making up the stories he told me, because that was easier than reading after a long day at work. Once I learned to read, he had me read to him - my books, the newspaper, National Geographics. He'd come home from the firehouse, run a bubble bath, and lay in boiling water, soaking out the aches and pains, while I sat on the toilet lid and read to him.

Every kid's special time is different, I guess. Much of mine took place in a pink-tiled bathroom, sitting on the lid of the toilet, reading to a man completely submerged in bubbles. Only his head, and one foot, which he used to turn on the hot water, was visible. (Unlike my mom, who paraded around in her undies - or without them - my dad was pretty modest, so bubble bath was his solution to spending time with me).

He retired from the fire department in 1972, after 20+ years. He continued to work his part-time maintenance job at the college near where we lived, but in April of 1973, he got sick. What he thought was just a recurrence of his yearly bronchitis was actually lung cancer, very advanced. He was in the hospital for 10 days, and then he was gone. I got to visit him once, but no one told me how serious it was (I was 9, so I guess that makes sense).

Anyway, I like to think of it like this. I was 9 when he died, which wasn't actually a bad age. I was old enough to remember him, pretty clearly, and young enough that I'd never had a teenage "I hate you!" moment that would have tortured me for the rest of my life. When he died, he was still the center of the universe - but after that, Mom got more of a chance. She liked that; I didn't mind.

It's not mother's day

But I've been thinking about my mom lately.

Someone on Facebook started it. She posted a photo of her mom with something sentimental - which is fine, don't get me wrong, sentimental is good - but it's not something I've ever applied to thoughts of my mom.

As you can tell from this photo, she was...interesting. This was at age 17-18, only a year or two out of her ugly duckling phase (really, she did have one!) and a few months before her first marriage. Which she did because she was bored.

I've been dining out on Mom stories forever, and people always ask when I'm going to write about her. Memoir? Fiction? She's always been stranger than fiction, the kind of character that, if you create, people would say was impossible.

She was impossible. She also raised me, loved me to distraction - partly, I think, because she never wanted kids and if she was going to have one, she would love that child so hard she wouldn't remember what she'd given up for it - and embarrassed me for several decades running.

All that said, she was an original, and I wouldn't be the person I am today (or the storyteller, for that matter), without having had her in my life as inspiration, mortification, and she-who-I-would-not-become.

Honestly, is there anything more judgmental than a teenage girl? Especially if there's something legitimate to be judged? I don't think so. Somehow we got through it, and her phase of "I'm not your mom, I'm your best friend," and by the time she died in 2006, we were mostly friends, and only irritated the crap out of each other on a regular basis.

But look at that picture. Look closely. And then imagine yourself as a teenager, with a mom who, at 40, still pretty much resembled that photo (but blonde!) and dressed like that photo. Thus, my mortification. When your pre-adolescent crushes give you Valentines to give to your mom, she's doing something wrong. Or in her eyes, something right. Male attention, even of the 12-year-old variety, was a good thing.

I can't write about her yet. I can't be totally objective, and honestly, I don't know if I'm a good enough writer yet to do her justice.

Easter

It's hard to write about Easter as a non-religious person. It's a loaded holiday, carrying a lot of hope of resurrection and, well, hope that people can use right now.

But I didn't grow up with that, and it's not something I've looked for since. Growing up, Easter was tight white patent leather shoes and a dress I would refuse to wear ever again. It was bunnies and baskets and picking out all the black jellybeans for my dad, and trying to keep my mom from eating all my chocolates.

Today was a weird mix of sacred and profane, or at least sacred and secular. Since we're all staying home - and it appears my town is pretty well behaved - the local fire company drove around in the afternoon with the Easter Bunny in the back of their pickup.

I was ridiculously pleased to run outside and wave to a man in a rabbit suit.

Then I listened to Andrea Bocelli's concert from the Duomo in Milan, which was lovely and brought tears to my eyes the same way the firehouse rabbit did.

It was eerie, hearing that voice echo inside the enormous, empty Duomo. It must have seemed particularly strange to him; lacking sight, his sense of hearing and space in the empty marble building must have felt disorienting.

If you haven't watched or listened, here's a link. Also, for my sewing friends, check out the fabric of his jacket. Fancy stuff.

Whoever was in charge of the camera couldn't resist a little fun. This statue of St. Bartholomew was do amazing I took a screenshot so I could look him up after.

I hope you all had a safe and happy weekend, and whatever - if any - holiday you celebrated was good.