I typed THE END and checked the word count: a little more than 90,000. I’m done, I smiled. Finally, I had finished my novel, the one that I had been trying to complete for years. But, like the question of a tree falling in the forest, if no one reads your manuscript, is it really a book?
I started my novel before meeting my husband. Part of our connection was our love of writing. He gave me feedback on my plays, and I gave him feedback on his film scripts. But my book was different. It pre-dated our time together, so I thought I should finish it on my own.
As I read through the “final” draft, I delighted in the small edits I could make — fixing a typo here, an errant comma or a repeated word there. This, I thought, was polishing my manuscript.
But as each week passed, and I described to my husband the world of my novel, the characters and their journeys, the elephant in our home grew larger and louder, until one day I said: “Do you want to read it?” hoping he’d say No.
“Yes! Finally! I’ve been waiting for you to ask,” he said. Rats.
I presented him with the first 50 pages of my novel. While he was downstairs reading, I was upstairs, in my little writing room, curled up on the sofa in the fetal position. Would he find it funny, or at least amusing? If he didn’t like it, would all 90,000 words be wasted? Did I just devote years of my life to an exercise in delusion?
My heart raced, my muscles tensed, and I willed myself to breathe. Then I heard it. A twitter. Followed by a chuckle. And finally a guffaw. I hoped he was laughing with the story, not at it.
Twenty minutes later he was standing at the foot of the sofa, pages in hand. “Well done,” he said. Channeling Sally Field at the Oscars I proclaimed, “You like it? You really like it?” He did. But now he wanted to read the whole novel. Over the course of the week, he read. Every. Single. Word. Even worse: he wanted to discuss it. With notes!
My novel, Entitled is a first-person narrative from the perspective of a Book as it is read, loaned, lost and abandoned, eventually finding its forever bookshelf. I took great care in creating the world of Books and their rules. But he pointed out, “I’m bought in. You don’t have to keep selling me on the world.” He highlighted sections where I had recounted similar experiences. “We’ve already seen this, four chapters ago.” Lines of text were circled in red. “I want to know how the Book feels here. Give me more.”
During the next hour, page upon page turned before me, and edits upon edits mounted. The trouble was, he had a point. I had overwritten sections and repeated myself. Again and again. I hate when he’s right, especially when it means work for me.
Crawling into bed at night, our talk would inevitably turn to my novel. “I was thinking, in your chapter about…” he’d say, and make another suggestion. Begrudgingly I’d write it down, then turn over to indicate I was done with the discussion. How can I get away from rewrites when I’m sleeping with my editor?
The nighttime musings turned into daytime ideation. I’d hear the phrase I came to dread: “I was thinking…” I had unleashed a monster. As the weeks passed, I tried to avoid him—difficult when we are both working from home. I started avoiding eye contact, in case he had another idea to share. Keep your head down, I told myself. Don’t give him an opening.
Along the way, what started out as 90,000 words tightened to 75,000 words. Those excess 15,000 words are now forgotten and certainly not missed. His notes brought me confidence and perspective on the story that could only come from a good editor.
When we both agreed the edits were done, I knew my novel was ready to be shared. After years of writing, and months of rewriting, we raised a glass together. My novel was published on November 24. My husband’s birthday.
P.S. In case you are wondering, yes, he read this story too. And provided notes.
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