It was raining again. Alex wasn’t surprised—there’d been rain all week—but why was it falling on his face? He sneezed. Rain was usually cold and wet, but this was dry and powdery. It was getting into his nose, making it hard to breathe. Choking him, even.
Alex sat up, coughing. Where was he? He squinted in the darkness. Something was falling on him, making a skittery, rattling noise, like gravel. Then it all came back to him...
Hang on: I've started this off with a sleeping character and this is a classic no-no. You're not supposed to start books off with characters who are in bed, sleeping. Can I get away with this? Won't it put my readers off? Make them think the rest of the book is going to be a real yawner?
Tonight, Kathe and I finally managed to get this computer hooked up. It was great to connect with friends and family again! The minute we got it set up, Alex started e-mailing everyone, even my family back in New Jersey. Tell your cousin about the massive garden and all the trees, I said. Tell your Aunt Miriam how big the house is. (Miriam’s such a snob about having a two-story house.) He just frowned and gave me a Tell them yourself look. He’s been giving me looks like that ever since we arrived in Scotland.
Uh oh: that's a POV shift. You're not supposed to have POV shifts in kids' stories. Kids want to read about kids, not about kids' mothers. I thought it might be fun to have the odd diary entry for Alex's mothern -- for readers to see that Alex and his mother have a completely differently take about almost everything. But now I wonder: what self-respecting kid wants to read about mothers and their doubts, petty rivalries and insecurities? And isn't that phrase arrived in Scotland a little too expositional?
I wrote this story, an MG for boys, a couple of years ago. I can easily remember how thrilled I was when I finished the very last sentence of the very last chapter and proudly clicked Save.
To my great disappointment, my husband and kids were not thrilled with it. "There's no tension," my husband pointed out, "and almost no story. Nothing really happens. And pardon me, but I think you're moralizing." My kids were just as cruel. "The funny parts are too far apart. You need a lot more of them."
I waited a few months, then rewrote the chapters they found most problematic. Still, no dice. "Everybody gets along too well," my oldest daughter objected. "They're all so nicey-nice with each other. Make them not get along so well."
So I did this. I added tension, spats, unpleasantness. I made my clueless new-age earth mother type a lot more obnoxious. I gave Alex and his functionally autistic roommate Arnie more rivalries and opportunities to clash. "It's still not really funny enough," my younger daughter told me truthfully. "The funny parts are too long. I think they need to be shorter."
Having family members read and comment on your manuscripts is also a huge no-no for writers. The idea is that they will always be inclined to like what you've written and praise it to the skies. This is one piece of advice I've learned to ignore. My kids and husband read all the time, both kids' books and adults' books. They have very discerning tastes and they wouldn't massage my ego if I put a gun to their heads. I can also tell them where to get off when they try to rewrite my plots for me. The only downside is that I can't tell anyone about this. No one who matters in publishing will be favorably impressed by the editorial approval of someone's husband and children.
My multiply revised manuscript is nowhere near ready for family input and I've now come to a standstill on it. Why was it so easy to write but so difficult to rewrite?
Actually, I know the answer: a few years back when I first wrote this, I really had no idea of what made a story riveting and utterly compelling, so I just blazed on full-steam ahead. Now I know much more about writing and I can clearly see what doesn't work. I've also been in a writing group and had my work raked through hot coals -- and I've profited enormously from this. But I've become a little like the centipede that, suddenly conscious of all the appendages it has managed to use so effortlessly, finds it impossible to move forward. Suddenly everything is a cliche, every subplot a possible distraction, every device smacks of exposition, and every paragraph must be minutely examined for possible moralizing.
So I will leave this manuscript for another week. I will work in my garden, I will do my long-neglected household chores, and I will go for long walks. And I will pray not to run into anyone who looks at me pityingly and wonders when I will get a real job.
