Collaboration and gratitude: pieces of the writing life

Thoughts prompted by the making of an audio book

May 22, 2022

Yes, even for novelists, who we can see as “loners,” there is still an element of collaboration; I’ll get to that below.

This started out as a post about my forthcoming audio book. With its release date (May 30) I’ve been planning presentations for the month of June (Canada’s “ALS Awareness Month”), and thought it’d be an idea to share something of the process with you. But, as often happens, the post ideas spread!

I’ll do this in several parts, with the first here being about the print-to-audio-book, and the second and third parts about the process of putting together presentations (one post for adults, another for young people). So watch for that in the coming week.

Background

When my spouse had ALS, and I went through a long short year of caregiving, I kept a daily journal. It kept me on some kind of path, really, and helped me to process my days and my life at that point. It was a huge piece in what held me together.

I read Joan Didion’s excellent The Year of Magical Thinking and a number of other books about caregiving. John Bayley’s Elegy for Iris, about taking care of his beloved, Iris Murdoch, was also noteworthy. (Even though it has left me with the dubious image of the venerated writer, sitting giggling over the UK’s dreadful children’s show, “The Teletubbies.” Ah, life… )

“If there's a book that you want to read, but it hasn't been written yet, then you must write it.” ~~ Toni Morrison

But I couldn’t find a book about living with a diagnosis of ‘terminal’ and ALS, and at-home caregiving, with young people still living at home. I did come across some later that were close, but felt compelled to write the one I did, about my months immersed as they were. Instead of reading, I wrote. Not one sentence is shared between the journal and the published book, but one was birthed of the other, one was impossible without the other.

I began the process of the book some time after my spouse died, and it took about two years, and was a challenging—healing and necessary—write. My agent sent it out, and it sold to Touchwood Editions, a publishing company on Vancouver Island, who take great care with the small number of titles they bring to the world each year.

The story touched the heart of the publisher, and she connected with it—this piece cannot be taken for granted; for whatever reasons that have nothing or little to do with marketing/business but everything to do with “why,” this type of connecting-that-can-become-collaboration is significant. And utterly unpredicable.

As a company and team, Touchwood has been wonderful to work with, and I am grateful for their vision.

When looking further for reading material, after those months, I read books about loss, widowhood, and grief, and in too many of them, I detected a lack of editorial hand; Joyce Carol Oates’, A Widow’s Story, for instance, was about 150 pages too long, and I could only guess that no one wanted to touch her words. It takes a self-confident editor to work with such personal material—I get that. I could only hope that I would find such a person—and did my best to write with awareness of the readers’ emotional fortitude for the trip I was going to take them on. (I appreciated Didion’s brevity.) This review completely disagrees with me about the length. Fair enough!

Dance Me… sold in February 2019, and was released in October of the same year. That is extremely quick turnaround, and I was busy with re-writes, cover selection, preparing for promotion (which now means writing short pieces in addition to excerpts), and more. Then along came the pandemic not even half a year later which effectively squashed the promo—even as we all staggered along on zoom and even an Instagram presentation—not the optimal way to present!

A wish

In those early pandemic/zoom months though, a woman far too young to be diagnosed with that horrible disease, reached out with her plans to have a book club, to share the half dozen books she’d managed to find, mine included. (This is how a book finds its way into the world.) It seemed brave to me, to read the book as someone living with ALS. I’d written as caregiver and a person wrestling with the reality of trying to be both nurse and spouse—roles that seemed too much at odds. I wrote to explore how couples communicate throughout a relationship about what matters—tough conversations—and when communication physically breaks down.

But altogether I was astonished that readers for whom it was not easy to pick up a book—to hold it, to turn pages—were reading it. I wished it were available as an audio book, and suggested this to the publisher.

And now

In Canada, our publishing system is quite subsidized. We forget this at times, as it’s rather behind-the-scenes, but it is.

What goes on behind the scenes, I’m not sure. I only know that some months ago, my publisher let me know that they’d received funding to re-release the book in audio form, and I would be receiving audition recordings of actors’ voices. I didn’t know they’d applied for the funding. (Best not to know—we spend so much of our writing lives on tenterhooks as it is, waiting for word… )

My publisher collaborated with ECW Press, a long-term Canadian Indie, who has pulled ahead in the creating of audio-works—a solid example of finding and developing a niche, and also of working together with strengths. Why do everything yourself if you can find someone who’s experienced, learned, and earned some recognition? This allows you to do more of whatever you do best, and serves both businesses and individuals.

I received four audition recordings, and was asked to provide thought and input on the decision.

Keep in mind the content of the material. I suspect the actors who read thought that gravitas was in order—but to the point that they sounded as if they were dying. Slow and ponderous reading. Painful. Then I listened to Number Four.

A well-modulated, low voice, and such perfect pace. Not slow, not quick. With emotion, yes, but she gave the reader a sense of being carried along for the ride of the story.

The book has portions of free verse in it, and instead of the usual, rather horrible “poetry-voice” that we hear too often at poetry readings, Number Four read them as I’d heard them grow in my mind and heart.

Gratitude

I felt a deep wash of this as I listened to her. Ellen Dubin. An experienced actress and audio-book narrator, though this is her first for Canada. My response was immediate and I wrote to Touchwood. I suspect our choices were unanimous. They ascertained that she was available; she read through the book and produced a list of words she was questioning for pronunciation (including my sons’ names). Such care and attention to detail.

Then she and I spoke on the phone; it was like meeting an old friend. A sense of rightness. It is something to write a book, to complete it, to find a publisher and see it out to the world. At that point, it begins to belong to others. You find it in others’ hands. With each reader, and with each who continues to contribute to it, it becomes more, more than the writer. As it takes its own shape, lives its own life, I can only feel gratitude that it has connected.

A writer’s input

Covers, illustrators, voice-actors… The writer has some—some—input with these.

Generally, contractually, the writer does not have final say. Only once (my collection of short fiction for adults, with Porcupine’s Quill, Learning to Live Indoors) have I had all input for the cover of a book.

I’ve also been sent the “final” cover, only to open the box (of ten copies, also contractual) and discover a completely different cover, different image, different font, from what I’d been sent. In that case, the change-up was a most pleasant surprise from what I’d thought I’d be seeing. (The book designer had had an epiphany while looking at magazines at a free-style cycling/extreme sports show! And the book was The Half-pipe Kidd.)

For Dance Me to the End’s cover, I was sent four completely different covers, and several colour-iterations of one of them. One looked like a horror-film poster, black and purple, with a shaky-looking hand.

All those with input—publisher, designer, me, and others—put forward their thoughts, and the cover I chose was the cover most—or perhaps all—chose, too, including the colour choice. Again this felt right.

Vulnerability

I’m sure that some of you have had less-than-pleasant experiences with collaboratng or connecting. To date, of eleven books published, I’ve had a negative with only one—that published with an educational publisher, dealing with political-correctness run amok, and too many editorial hands.

The solitariness of writing comes to an end with publishing that is not self-published. It’s been important for me to remember that all included, not just me, have wanted the best for each project.

While I’ve been able to make suggestions for illustrators for my picturebooks, the choices always ended with the publishers, and have always proven to be optimal.

It may seem odd to those who haven’t published a picturebook, but the relationship between writer and illustrator is almost always maintained with a middle-person—usually the editor. This is deliberate—and it allows the illustrator to have their own vision for the story, which is necessary. A solid illustrator is a story-teller in their own right, the visual story-teller. The writer has to step back—this is a key piece of being a PB writer, surely. It’s analogous to writing for stage or film—there are all the other artistic visions.

But this is collaborative; the sense of working together, even at arms length, is there. It’s something to trust. I think that process—working with PB creating—has helped me to trust such collaboration with the other writing forms I work in.

Trust

In my first PB, published with Albert Whitman & Co., the illustrator lived in Florida. We had no communication. He did all the preliminary paintings (yes, paintings! “Preliminary”—what a lot of work. Respect!) and sent them to the editor, who in turn sent them to me.

It’s a story of a man, a grandfather, who is in the stage of Alzheimer’s where he needs family around him, before he goes into a care-home. He is moving into his grand-daughter’s home, and he arrives with his cat, Baby Ruth, under an arm, and some sheet music for his piano in hand.

The editor attached a note to say that she thought the cat should be in a carrier (!)

I wrote a note back to her (and waited 24 hours to send), to say that given his age (pre-carrier days!) and the fact that Baby Ruth was something of a furry security blanket, no, it made sense to me that the artist’s vision was indeed mine, too—exactly as I’d been visualizing Grandpa’s arrival.

I sent off the note… and the editor wrote back to say, “That’s exactly what Bill (Farnsworth) said, too!” They kept the illustration as it was, cat held by the old man, a couple legs dangling out under his arm.

That note was so gratifiying. Without ever having communicated with the illustrator hired to work with my story, I knew—knew—we were on the same wavelength. Trust. I’ve reflected on this many times since.

Trust to let free your work into the world, knowing it’ll connect as it needs to. With agent, publisher, editor, book designer, publicist, reviewer… and others, before it ever gets to the reader. And on the way, you connect, and build a team. Literary family.

Last week I was sent the following list of questions by the audio team, which will be used to promote the new form of the book. I’ll share it with you so you can see what this can look like. (I’ve posted in my responses FYI—they’re repetitive with some of what I’ve written above—but you can skim through the questions only.)

And if you have questions, please post in the comments!

~~~~~

Audiobook Q&A - Author

What went into the decision of having Ellen narrate this deeply personal book? What was it like working with the narrator and director on this project?

I was given a set of audition recordings. I knew, within seconds of hearing Ellen’s voice (the last tape I listened to in the set), that she was perfect. Her voice is low and pleasant. And even more, was her understanding of the pacing for sharing this story. She understands the need to move along, even with a tone of respect and empathy. She reads the portions of free verse as they should be read—not with the strange “here, we’re reading a poem!” voice that is too often used for such bits. The emotion and the story comes through. We spoke on the phone, and shared a bit of our selves, and this confirmed the connection.

I’ve published picturebooks, and I think the connection between writer and illustrator in that form of writing is analogous to this connection, and is significant. I think much of it is one artist’s recognition of another—we each have our strengths, and when we bring these together, the sum is greater than the parts. I am so grateful to Ellen’s agent who alerted her to the book and to the audition call.

What was the most interesting part of the audiobook process for you and why? What was it like hearing your book in audio for the first time?

Connecting with Ellen has been a gift. Artists collaborating is special to me, as so much of writing is solitary—it is the most solitary of the art forms. Hearing my words read by another, another who took the words to heart, was also meaningful. Honestly, it feels almost too personal to write about—you just know when words connect individuals. It is a gift.

Who do you think this book will appeal to? And what do you hope readers will take away from it?

I wrote Dance Me to the End in its original form because when I was caregiving my spouse I couldn’t find anything to truly connect with. The one stand-out book was Joan Didion’s The Year of Magical Thinking, though her experience was very different from mine. But I knew I wanted to read something else, something that looked at what it is to live with “terminal” hanging over, and the full-time nature of caring at home. And the end of a decades-long relationship. It is a dance, it is a part of a dance. I remember hearing the Cohen song on CBC radio one morning in the midst of that time, and it resonated.

At one point after the book was published, a young and brave woman (Sunny Brous) reach out to include me in her passion-project book club, in which she was sharing a half dozen books about ALS via weekly zoom sessions. I was astonished to learn that she had read the book. I wrote for caregivers and people dealing with others’ illnesses, not necessarily those living with the disease. But she found value and meaning in it, and that meant the world to me. That was when I first began to hope it would become an audio book, and become easier to share with a wider audience. As a story that can be heard, and not read or handled, it’s optimal for absorbing.

I’ve also had a number of readers who really have nothing to do with ALS or any illness, but who read it as a story of what it takes to have a relationship and how we communicate—or don’t—and how we make our way through life’s tough times, and grow and accept. Again, it’s something I would have liked to be able to read years ago. I’ve come to know that there are books we are impelled to write.

Is there anything else that you would like to add about your experience?

I am truly grateful for the good folks at Touchwood Editions/B&G, and now to ECW for their experience and knowledge—again, people working together to bring work up and into the light. Thank you.

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