Galley Slave

Yesterday, along with his new year’s wishes, my friend JR sent his writing pals this quote from Steven King:

"At its most basic we are only discussing a learned skill, but do we not agree that sometimes the most basic skills can create things far beyond our expectations? We are talking about tools and carpentry, about words and style... but as we move along, you'd do well to remember that we are also talking about magic."

You’d think a writer who has successfully completed at least three drafts of a 112,000 word manuscript would have a more realistic take on the writing process,  wouldn’t you? But we must make allowances for JR. He is one of those annoying optimists whose glass is not only half full, it’s half-full of stuff like pink lemonade and Remy Martin V.S.O.P.

If he’d sent this quote two weeks ago, I’d probably have shot back this third definition of the word magic from Webster’s:  the art of producing illusions by sleight of hand.  This is because two weeks ago I was slumped over the keyboard in despair, unable to come up with a gimmick to perk up a flaccid protagonist in my second novel, convinced I had no skills whatsoever, let alone learn[-]ed ones.  This is still a possibility, but seems less likely in light of a recent event.

Two days before Christmas, there was a knock on my door. I was in the shower at the time, so ignored it. No one was expected, and it’s been a few decades since I looked good in a towel.  I heard the screen door open and had an Alfred Hitchcock moment trying to remember if I’d locked up the night before, but whoever it was just dropped something on the doorstep and left. I assumed it was Santa’s Flyer Elf again. He’d been coming around so frequently during the month of December, with increasingly huge bundles of newsprint suggestions for gift ideas, that’ I’d moved the recycling box into the living room to avoid having to trudge out to the back shed every day.  But it wasn’t the Flyer Elf after all. It was the FedEx man, and he’d left me a package from the publisher.   

Communications from the publisher are very similar to parcels postmarked in Beirut; they should be opened only after diligent examination. The publishing process is something of a roller coaster ride for a debut author, and I have learned not to assume everything arriving from Penguin  will be cause for celebration.

I squished the envelope cautiously and detected, with relief, the outlines of two books.  My editor, Danielle, had previously sent me a book she thought I’d  enjoy.  Ripping open the parcel, I pulled out a paperback with a bright pink cover. (For some reason, pink is the preferred jacket color for women’s fiction.)  Then I had one of those blank, static-y episodes that happen when reality doesn’t match my perception of it. Every neuron in my brain, including the ones normally devoted to tasks like vision and muscle control, scrambled around frantically, trying to achieve a inner configuration that matched the outer world. Fortunately, I was standing in front of an armchair at the time and managed to avoid injury.

When sufficient neurons were once again available for coherent thought, I realized I was holding !MY BOOK! – well actually, the galley of  !MY BOOK!, which was a reasonable facsimile thereof, complete with a pink cover,  fancy chapter headings, blurbs on the back, and weirdest of all, my name at the top of every second page. (Technically, this is called an advanced reading copy, or ARC, because it's properly bound with the real cover, but "ARC Slave" isn't a catchy title.)  

The other book turned out to be Penguin’s 2011 Summer Catatogue, with a note from Danielle clipped to the front, instructing me to check out page 30. I did, and there I saw !MY BOOK!, along with some intoxicating verbiage like “Baker is an exciting new voice” - a statement applicable to every debut author which in no way detracted from my pleasure at reading it.

While there are many benefits to living alone, one of the problems I face is not having someone handy when I have good news to share. This isn’t a usually a big problem for a pessimist, but on this occasion, I really needed a squeal, so I called Wen, my long-suffering  and life-long friend. She listened to me burble away until I was all burbled out, then we made a date to go see a movie the following Tuesday.

That day, I sat down at the keyboard with new confidence. You do have skills, I told myself. You are a real writer. You can do this. Go Bren! And go I did, at the rate of 2,500 words a day for over a week now.

I don’t know how long the high of getting the galley will last. (Hopefully, at least until the first reviews come in. That’s why publishers print galleys, you know, to give to reviewers.) But while it does, I’m going to be here at my desk every day, typing up a storm, enslaved by the conviction I am a real writer.  

My protagonist is still flaccid, though. Wonder what advice Stevie has for situations like this.