Had a nice zoom with my editor this morning. Second Pass for Taking London is coming my way on Thursday, which is the last time I'll see the words before it gets sent to the printer, there to be bound and shipped to the four corners of the earth. I'll read it one more time, hoping there are no completely awful sentences. It's a year this week since I began writing it, but the research went on for a while before that. I'm not the sort of writer who takes years on a book project, so living with Taking London the past eighteen months feels like a very long spell.
The next book is Taking Midway, which I don't love yet. Right now, we're not even friends. It's still in the problem child phase. The story isn't talking to me, at least not in the way I want. That's probably three or four months away. I can't explain the process other than to say that early in a book the story is something to be afraid of — a "don't fuck this up" opponent. Then you get to know it, and it's less terrifying. Then comes a "what if" moment when the story talks to me, granting permission to tell the story in a new and unusual voice or structure. That's a fun time. The book starts appearing in my dreams, literally. Characters start talking for themselves. Sentences beg to be written a certain way. Taking London, for instance, started as a straight-up excuse to fly in a Spitfire. Then I had to build a story around it, with the Battle of Britain as a logical choice. But there are hundreds of books about that fight, all told in pretty much the same style: straight history, pilot memoir, etc. I was stuck for a long time, wondering how I could do it differently.
I've written a lot of books. It's always terrifying. I can honestly say I'm always sure I'm about to veer down a dark path and write an awful piece of tripe. The trick is not giving in to that voice. I just keep writing and rewriting and rewriting, sometimes throwing it all away to start fresh. Well, not all of it. I delete a lot but I can't imagine doing as John le Carré did with The Honourable Schoolboy, hurling the entire manuscript into a roaring fire, then began again.
I prefer the David Mamet approach, locking myself in my office even when I can't solve the word problem. Spend enough time writing shitty drafts and the story unveils itself. My stomach cramps from the certainty that I will never solve this book. My butt hurts from sitting too much. My office smells of stale coffee and dog farts, from Sadie the Lab sleeping at my feet. My wife pays me a visit and suggests I light a candle.
This is Book Writing 101. There's no muse. There's no magic. Make a mess on the page and clean it up.
But then you come to where I am now, chatting with my wonderful editor about the marketing campaign and waiting to read the book one last time before saying goodbye and sending it to the printer. This is when I love the process very much.
Now about that problem child….