When is a Thing Done?

—reading Station Eleven, by Emily St. John Mandel. Note the “thanks” to editors “whose tireless work made this a far better book that it would otherwise have been”

First, a thank you to those who joined with paid subscriptions following my last post—I so appreciate!

Also, a note to remind you that if you click on the title here, it will take you directly to reading this on the Substack site.

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I sent my novel to my agent at the end of the day, Thursday, done. Or done for now. Done as far as I can take it at this point. More on that later…

How did I know it was Time to Send?

As you know, I had my “push” week two weeks, when I attempted to bring this three year project to a close. But at the end of the week (a week ago, Friday), it did not feel quite “done.”

I cook a turkey twice a year, Thanksgiving and Christmas. No, that’s not true: I have been cooking one for American Thanksgiving for the past few years. But sometimes we’re invited somewhere, and I miss a year. It’s easy to forget the finer points of how-to.

(And with apologies to vegetarians and vegans for this analogy!)

Almost always I forget to plunge the thermometer into the thing. I do own one, but in the excitement of making my best-stuffing-ever (I am not humble about this), the bird is in the oven with an hour or more gone before I think about the gadget that would tell me it’s done without the poking and prodding and the trying to remember what time it went in and at what temperature did I cook it last year. I consider myself lucky to remind myself to cook it upside down for moisture. Which seems so much more important!

It becomes a process of intuition. Does it smell as it should? Does the drumstick come free? What is the colour?

Knowing when a manuscript is ready is too similar. I wish I did have a thermometer for this process. Imagine! That half circle of descriptors, with a nice little jiggly arrow that points out—oh, maybe that’s a ouija board I’m thinking of.

No, the closest thing is my gut. And my list of questions, my notes. What have I managed to cross off?

I spoke of a last read and polish in my most recent post about this process. I’ve spoken at other points of both my process journal and the one you keep too.

As I write and read, and throughout my monthly writing group meetings, I collect questions and thoughts. The lists grow lengthy as the novel does too. With the words that come from my meetings with others, I write about both the comments that resonate and those that don’t—this is key. Some comments give me insight into how others will see the work in ways I did not intend.

Sometimes those notes in my journal just sit for months before I find my way back to them. At points in time, I realize I’ve already worked through the manuscript to something that resolves. Other times, I more fully realize my original intention and that it is the one that works. Still, all the questions and ideas and observations are a part of the process.

Through the last go-round, I also revisited my original process journal of this manuscript, the one started more than three years ago, when I filled an entire notebook. There, I gained a sense of the done and the undone, the original hopes, the changes.

Always, I work with a sense of the story I want to write, and the one I have actually produced, the space between those two, and the “what happens” in that space. I need to have a sense that it is not a deep chasm to fall into—that I have filled or at least created a bridge. Too, with reviewing my original plans, there is a sense of having grown beyond; once deeply into the work, it becomes its own thing, it pushes its own way into life. It is gratifying to see that growth. I am reminded of the faith it takes to write. Two brave sets of eyeballs saw my first draft, and it was ugly. They were generous. But they also said what needed to be said.

In recent months, two more sets of eyeballs have read through. And then re-read many sections.

In these past days, I’ve crossed lines through many of those questions, those notes. Some I’ve pondered and then ignored. Others I’ve grappled with.

I’ve had what I think of as non-writing days—days when I use the “find” capacity to track down my tics—that is, my over-use of particular words. Those are mechanical days, times of feeling not particularly inspired, but when I still want to be working, to keep my head in the manuscript. I’m not a fan of setting aside work just because I “don’t feel like it today.” When you’re developing a 400 page story, there’s always something to do.

There’s also the point I’m at, though, when I begin to feel I’m going-in-circles. I’ve done what I need to at this time; I’ve taken it as far as I can at this time. It is time to pass it along. Even though it still feels a bit terrifying to let go. At some point, your child does walk out of your home, alone, and goes down the street, goes out to make their own life in the world. You can only hope you’ve given them all what they need to do that.

A (partial) list:

(first, the mechanics)

—chapter lengths (do they make sense? Have some rhythm and pattern? Or are some far too short or too long?)

—word tics—what do you overuse? Are you aware of these? (If not, ask a reader.) Which can you cut? What are ones that you would fight for?

—basics of spelling and punctuation—again, something for uninspired days. Make serious effort to send out a clean manuscript

(moving from mechanics to art)

—is every chapter necessary? is every scene? If you had to, can you see or sense some epiphany in each? (Going through with this in mind, I cut a number of scenes… none of which I feel I’m “missing” in the final draft.) Is there a sense of moving forward through the story? If not “forward” then is the pause or regression purposeful? (Which is still “moving forward.”)

—do the chapter titles and yes, the title of the whole, work? Are they too “on point?” Do they hold some mystery or whimsy?

(art)

—have you reviewed each and every thread of the story? Each character’s path follows. Each motif. Do re-read the post about mystery/negative capability that I posted last week. Keep in mind… even as you do follow threads to see where they go. Let the story tell you when to step aside.

—at any point do you chuckle? do you cry? are you moved? have your characters surprised you with their love, or anger, or bravery? If not, you may have more work to do. Why are you not feeling the emotion?

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Please add to this list in the comments with any of your thoughts from your experiences.

How do you know when you are finished?

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*a note on the photo

I’ve been noting such words recently in the acknowledgements of books.

We live in a time when self-publishing is pushing us to re-think the role of the editor. Work is being produced with no editorial hand. Even good work. Yet, to my mind, editors are a significant piece to the creating process. A good editor will move you to create further; a great editor understands the questions to ask that go to a deeper place. Even though novel-writing is solitary, publishing is still collaborative.

It’s a tough line to understand and see, the line between a story not being ready to go to an agent or editor, and being ready and accepting of the fact that there will still be other layers, there is still more work.

A friend of mine once had several editors and publishing houses interested in her first novel. Instead of asking how much they were offering her in advance, or what their projected sales might be, or royalty rates, she asked each editor to give her thoughts on the story, the directions each saw. She based her decision on the words of the editors, and she ended up working in a true partnership with an editor whose vision meshed so well with hers. Together, they birthed some rich stories in the following decade. An editor is a midwife. They remember it’s not their baby, but they care as if it is.

So my story is ready for my agent’s eyes. She will give me her editorial take. And I know it will go through further work with an editor someday, too.

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Don’t forget to turn your characters upside down—that really is the important bit.