A writer, reloaded

Realized that I haven’t said much about writing lately and there’s a reason. Between the start of a new school year–the children are mostly settled in now, and the school trip which routes them to Boston is this Saturday, thank Christ–and dealing with some personal issues, there hasn’t been much spare time. Weekend duty and late nights on campus are basically over. Despite the obstacles, there is a bit happening behind the scenes writing wise.

Kerry, another professional copy editor, returned her edits for The Last Track on Saturday. Highly specific in nature, these potential revisions traced back directly to the agent’s list of concerns and approbations. In other words, if the agent said it worked, she left the given story element intact. Where the passage fell afoul of the agent’s sensibilities, Kerry proposed a specific means for fixing it. The burden falls on me to implement–and document–the changes, however.

At present, I believe this will take roughly fifteen sessions. Calendar wise that may mean fifteen to thirty days. Probably a few more, though not definitely so. That will satisfy two of the agent’s concerns; addressing the third requires composing several new pages.

I’ve also begun rewriting The Confession. Quite a lot of the first draft I wrote completely intoxicated. Not every word, of course, but probably a good 90 percent. To my amazement, the 140 pages are quite lucid, though a bit trance-like in terms of flow. Revising this manuscript involves translating large tracts of dialog into a linear narrative, then cutting back and forth between one final night of reckoning–a scene which is itself A-B-C in progression. Having survived the last four years of writing, I have faith that I can translate these pages consistent with the original idea and greatly improve the pacing.

I almost wrote the story this way a month or so in, but given the fact my marriage was skidding into oblivion, I doubted my judgment, and questioned the voice that tempers creativity with logic. Instead, I charged ahead with the intent of straightening out the problems later. Basically, in terms of coping with it, I simply opted for not now.

And now I opt for making The Confession the thriller it can be.

Though it happened two Fridays previous, the passing of a great author is just as haunting. Madeline L’Engle wrote some great novels, did it expertly, and for the delight of fans. A Wrinkle in Time remains one of my favorites, along side Brideshead Revisited by Evelyn Waugh and Speak, Memory by Nabokov. She tackled big themes–ground breaking ones, really–packaging them in an engaging, almost thriller paced story.

She’s also one of only two authors I’ve ever corresponded with, the other being a horror writer in Canada. To her credit, she answered the letters personally, even though they were written in terrible childish scrawl. She treated my lined paper queries as if composed with a typewriter upon the finest parchment.

And on a point closer to home, Editor person published some of L’Engle’s last books. I always wanted to meet her, but EP respected her privacy enough not to forward my fan boy request along.

Godspeed, Madeline. I loved your work. May you find the happiness and solace you deserve.