This week I turned in the manuscript for my fourth book. It felt, like it usually does, both satisfying and nerve-wracking. This time it also felt—like it definitely hasn’t before—peaceful, knowing this thing is out of my brain and hands and hanging out with some other books on my editor’s desk. There is still work to do, I’m sure, once she reads it. But for now, I wait.
The first time I wrote a book this process felt much more violent. After I finished the last sentences of Girl at War, I lay down on the kitchen floor and cried. I was subletting an apartment in Brooklyn from a very tall gay couple who had built their own cabinets, which were fastened to the wall too high for me to reach. I remember lying there looking up at those useless cabinets and thinking how far away they felt, how far away everything felt, how maybe I had just done this big hard thing for no reason. (As an aside, crying at book’s end seems to be a bit of a rite of passage, or at least a common experience. Zadie Smith describes crying after finishing On Beauty; just this morning while I was writing to you I received my friend Emma’s (really good! subscribe!) newsletter about book journeys with a similar moment!)
Anyway, back in 2013, on the kitchen floor on S. 3rd St., my crying was kind of a mixed bag. I felt immense relief in having finally finished something, and in having exorcised this particular book about a traumatic subject, but I was also afraid. I had no agent or editor and didn’t know what to do next from a “business” perspective, and that was scary. I’d also felt as if I’d put every idea and nice turn of phrase I’d ever thought up into that book, and I had no idea whether or what I could write next, and that was scarier.
Eventually, though, the ideas came back. Or better—I had brand new ideas. People have often asked me about writing sequels for Girl at War and for True Biz, but I’ve always found those funny questions, because it’s hard for me to imagine what a sequel could possibly contain. When I write fiction I leave it all on the page; I haven’t saved anything for later.
Still, when I sat down to write my second novel, I did kind of assume it would be easier, because I’d already done it once, and surely I’d learned something useful during that process….hadn’t I?
But writing isn’t quite like that. The first book can’t teach you how to write the second book, because if the books are good, there is no formula or stencil that can be neatly extracted and overlaid onto the next blank page. Each contains its own world, and in it, characters who have different needs, too. I’m sure there are exceptions, but I think trying to stuff a story into a preestablished framework is going to fail more often than not, and it’s also going to be less fun.
What I have learned from previous projects, though, is more about myself. I know my habits better, when I work best, the craft moves I’m good at and the ones where I’m still clunky, the words I use too much. I know better when to stop fiddling with something, when to leave and come back to it, and probably most importantly, how to best get my butt into the chair every day (or at least, every day the boys are in school).
I used to think my burn-it-all-down approach to writing—how I used up all my thoughts instead of creating a storehouse for future books—was a failing on my part. Now I see it differently, more like slash-and-burn farming, where the fire is not only about destruction, but about enriching the soil for the next crop, to make something bigger and bolder and more complex possible. Plus, if I held onto things for later, if I was a writer of meticulous outlines who knew the ending before I began, I wouldn’t be able to experience what I like best about writing (and reading), what for me makes doing the work worth it—learning something new.
I didn’t cry when I turned in this latest book. Instead I ran into the kitchen and did some embarrassing dance moves, then ate a bunch of Twizzlers before I went to pick up the kids. This, too, is a thing one can learn from previous books—to trust the process, (#PhillyPhilly) and take our peace when we can get it. Already, I feel excitement when I consider what I might write next, the jump of a new idea percolating beneath the surface. It may not look like much, but for me, it’s growth.
Further Reading
I have a new fiction short, “Trauma Bonds” over on BULL this morning. It’s one I’m proud of, even as I wish it wasn’t quite so relatable to our current moment.
If you’re seeking more craft thoughts, I wrote a Pep Talk for NaNoWriMo about things I’ve learned from houseplants I almost murdered, available here.
Also, peep True Biz over on Rep. Porter’s holiday booklist Substack!
Preorder Alert!
If you haven’t yet, please get your preorder on for the great Jami Attenberg’s 1000 Words anthology, out 1/9. Preordering from Books are Magic gets you stickers! Yours truly is in there, alongside ACTUAL LITERARY GIANTS, and it’s the kind of non-cheesy inspiration you’re going to want in 2024.