To become a writer is again to pick up the pen, open the laptop, open the mind. That’s the difference between writing and propaganda. Daily choices are the molecules of a calling, a career, a self.
I’ve been on a mini sabbatical, letting the ms in progress marinate in its own juices. Tomorrow I’ll do a blitz read through to mark the places that need attention. I think there’s plenty of work left to do. Then I’ll put the book into readable form and start looking for beta readers. If you’re not familiar with that term, it just refers to the folks who agree to read a nearly finished ms and respond in some detail as to what they think of the book.
As with so many things in life, the 80/20 rule seems to apply here. With the previous novel, only a small percentage of those readers who agreed to help actually did so. But feedback is important before the work goes public, so I’m compiling my list of potential betas. (No, not the Siamese fighting fish, humans who read novels.) I have many friends who write and I will certainly welcome their opinions, but I also want those of readers, the people who settle in with a book in hopes of enlightenment, entertainment, distraction–whatever makes them turn the pages. If folks reading this post are interested, please look up to the menu bar here on the blog and let me know via the “Get My News” link. In the space with your name add the word beta. Sometime next month I will distribute the ms electronically and hope to have the feedback not later than mid-March.
This week I sat in a local diner with other writers who impressed me by their willingness to approach tough stuff. One had the courage to describe his mother in more or less balanced terms without the sentimentality or vitriol that inherently sneaks into this mother of all topics. Another wrote about her insecurity and hesitancy to publish what she believes is the real value of her independently owned business, and a third dared to say that she’s out to change the world. Then there was the story of a childhood hurt that reduced the writer to tears. Such courage!
Truth abounding. And Truth is not beauty, no matter what Keats claimed. It’s temperamental and often ugly. It was ugly in Paris last week. It will be so again and again. But the writers I know and admire, either through their published work or their work in progress, wrestle with this harridan and sometimes they pin her to the mat. They force her to hold still long enough for us to see her complexity. This struggle is not, unfortunately, a given in the world of books. Many authors write to publish and ignore the struggle. They rely on formulas that fatten their wallets but do not nourish us or help heal our wounds.
So here I was this morning, in my green pajamas, noodling in my journal, remembering a time when even with personal writing I drew an innocuous picture of who I was, imagining a ghostly reader who would otherwise point out my flaws and ridicule my aspirations if I wrote the truth, even in my journal. No more of that. Truth is no easy ally, not willing to bend or change her stance to suit my tender ego. But, Truth, you are my best teacher. I’m glad we’ve finally met. I’ll try to be faithful.