The View From The End Of A Book

Why Is This Part Of Writing So Hard?

I’ve done this 18 times before (more if you count all the stuff that fizzled out). I’ve written manuscripts for kids’ books, watched someone bring them to life with illustrations, and revelled in the entire process…until the last little bit. I’m not 100% finished my latest one yet, but I am at the point where all that’s left are the itchy little details. I’m kind of miserable about it, keen to sort laundry, pull weeds, rewatch something silly, anything but take a critical eye to the final odds and sods of this new book. And I’m trying to understand, as many have done before me, why I’m not radiating joy as I approach the finish line.

Maybe it’s that I’m now far past the point of no return. If this thing sucks (which I don’t think it does), if no one’s going to like it, or worse, if no one’s going to read it at all, it’s way too late to do anything substantial about it now. This creature has been stitched together, I’ve run thousands of volts through it, and it is about to get up off the slab and storm some nearby villages. There are no more brakes to apply to it.

Is it just fatigue that I feel in the final stretch? I’ve been looking at this jumble of words for a while. I’ve read it so many times, I’m in the throes of semantic satiation. I’ve passed it to others to critique, over and over, and they’re now looking at me like I’ve lost my mind. Writing isn’t an easy process, and it does wear a person out.

It could be that I’m in the midst of Final Draft Paranoia. There could be a misplaced comma, a typo, an extra space that escapes my notice, and this little gem, this representation of my skills and effort, might march out in the world with a boo-boo in it, and I might look like a dork. It’s happened before. It happens all the time. I’m itchy and antsy because if I don’t look it over just one more time, I’m going to miss something, and the thought of that drives me nuts.

No doubt it’s a little bit about this book being personal. I think all books of all genres are a little bit personal, but this one is, in a roundabout way, autobiographical. I’m about to put one of the multitudes I contain on public display, and in the process, I will tell people just a little bit more about who I am. Yeah, it’s creepy.

It’s possible that I’m also  just sad that this one is almost over.  It’s fun doing a first draft, and then another, and then another, and then seeing characters in illustrated form. Now I’m in the midst of the picky bits, and after this, it’ll be all about uploads and book trailers and marketing stuff, and I’m not nearly as good at any of that. I wrote this little character to be cute and clever and charming. My illustrator is doing a wicked job making them look cute and clever and charming. I’ll be a little verklempt when I don’t have weeks with new sketches to look over, when I don’t spend time with this little rascal and they’ll live on a bookshelf in my office closet (and hopefully in a bunch of other people’s collections), instead of just inside my head.

Maybe it’s just as Dorothy Parker said: “I hate writing. I love having written.” In a couple of months, when it’s done and I’m holding a shiny new sample copy in my hand, I’ll feel a whole lot better. Maybe Ernest Hemmingway summed it up with “Write drunk, edit sober.” The goofy, fun part is finished, and the serious, grown-up stuff is upon me. Maybe I’m bitter because I skipped the drunk part.

Regardless, I think it’s important to share this part of the process. The last sliver of getting a book out there is killer. If there’s anyone reading this who’s aspired to write or publish, you need to know that this is part of the adventure. There are moments of creativity, and patches of productivity, but there are also icky stretches that make you wish you were a butcher, a baker, a candlestick maker, anything other than a writer. You should be mindful of this little bubble-bursting tidbit. You should be aware that at some point in the course of things, you will sort all of your socks, pull all of the weeds, and binge watch anything available, all in the name of not doing that last read over, making that last set of corrections, or making final decisions for descriptions and categories and distribution.

To quote Dorothy Parker again (she was beautifully honest about her craft): "Writing is the art of applying the ass to the seat.” It’s time I suck it up and get mine back to it, for just a little bit longer.

Wish me luck!