My Weblog: Typing

by Donna Andrews of the Femmes Fatales.

I've definitely reached the “it's all crap” phase of my latest book draft. This phase means that I reread what I've written so far and am suddenly struck by the awful realization that everything I have written is bad. Or at least deeply flawed. That it will require way more revision time than I have available to turn it into a decent book. That clearly this is the book that will reveal me as a writer who has nothing left to say, if indeed she had anything to say in the first place.

I have also reached the “Oh, my God, it's going to be too short” phase. I need to turn in a draft of about 80,000 words. Not just because it's in my contract—although it is—but also because if the book doesn't have a certain substance, a certain degree of complexity, it's deeply unsatisfying to the reader. And while I start drafting when I have an outline of greater or lesser completeness and magnificence, that I think will be enough to achieve that length, sometimes I'm wrong. Sometimes I need to add in incidents and plot twists to reach the proper level of complexity. Sometimes I write too tightly in the first draft and need to go back and layer in foreshadowing and description. And sometimes I am just struck by a groundless existential dread that no matter what I think of to add in, it will still be too short.

I usually reach the “it's all crap” phase and the “Oh, my God, it's going to be too short” phase at approximately the same time—resulting in the infinitely worse “Oh, my God, not only is it all crap, but there's not nearly enough of it” phase. This can happen 30% of the way in, or it might hold off until I'm 70% to 80% done—but it will arrive. Knowing this doesn't ward it off, or even make it any less painful to endure. Neither does having written over twenty-five published books, in spite of the fact that during the drafting of most if not all of them I felt the same dread and panic.

Knowing I've survived this before helps a little. But you know what really helps?

I keep typing.

The drawers of unpublished writers are filled with manuscripts that were abandoned when the author hit the “it's all crap” phase or the “Oh, my God, it's going to be too short” phase or one of their cousins that I haven't yet met (but could meet, any time, possibly while I'm still reeling under the double whammy of “Oh, my God, not only is it all crap, but there's not nearly enough of it.”)

The shelves of bookstores are filled with writers who weathered these phases and kept typing. Writers who, when their internal editors told them “it's all crap,” replied “then when I'm finished, I'll revise”--and kept typing. Writers who rode out “Oh, my God, it's going to be too short” by saying “well, when I'm finished, I'll see what's missing”--and kept typing.

So that's where I am this morning. Heading into the home stretch on a draft. A crappy draft that's way too short. A draft that at the moment seems less enticing to work on than cleaning my garage or finishing my income tax preparations.

If you want me, I'll be here typing.