Ernest Hemingway famously said "There's nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein.” The typewriter is now a laptop but the bleeding is still required. That's what my editor is telling me, anyway.
I recently announced that my memoir had been accepted for publication. It was a dream come true. Giddy with the sheer joy of success, I waited for the editorial process to begin. That's when the dream became a nightmare. The publisher emailed me that my manuscript requires so much editing that the publication date needs to be pushed back. It's not a matter of correcting typos; my grammar is impeccable. I need to rewrite the whole damn thing. Just when I thought I was summiting the mountain, I got knocked back to base camp.
What's lacking is a compelling narrative arc. My humorous anecdotes and witty observations aren't enough. They're not interested in an easy breezy travelogue. I need to 'dig deep' and 'bleed onto the page.' I have to be vulnerable. And that sucks.
I've spent my life building up defenses. Stripping myself of them for a public audience does not feel good. I'd almost prefer to physically strip. Who wants to be emotionally naked in a world where slinging shade on the Internet is everyone's favorite pastime? I mean, people were ragging on Simone Biles for her hair this week as she won gold medal after gold medal. Who needs that shit?
Also, I need to cut out all the boring parts. Apparently, there are plenty of boring parts. Easy descriptions, backstory, and travel tips all have to go. Whole chapters are on the chopping block. It feels like hacking off arms and legs. It took so long to write and now a lot of it is destined for the electronic recycle bin. It's like someone telling you your child is ugly and not very smart.
A Crying Shame
When I got the email from the publisher, I was crushed. I cried for two hours. I never cry. I was so ashamed. To be told that my book is unpublishable in its current form was devastating. I will spend a night tossing and turning if I make a typo in an email. I lost several nights of sleep over this one. My thoughts circled between a) just giving up, b) demanding to know why they issued me a contract in the first place, and c) doing what they asked.
At no point have I doubted that the publisher and editor are right. They are experienced industry professionals. Everything they say rings true. I know that my book will be much better if I manage to do what they're asking. I just have doubts about my ability to do it. The editor says encouraging things like "I see greatness here." She believes in me, but I'm not sure if I do.
Michelangelo viewed sculpture as 'the art of taking away.' He described his job in carving the statue of David as removing everything that wasn't David. That's what I'm tasked to do: get rid of the not-great parts. But I'm no Michelangelo. How do I tell the boring bits from the greatness? I'm liable to hack off a foot or a hand and leave chunks of useless marble in random places.
This blog post is my first public attempt at opening a vein. It feels terrible. I hate it. My favorite show tune is "Turn It Off" from The Book of Mormon, which encourages the young missionaries to quash any feelings they might be having. Feelings are for sissies. I am a rock. I am an island. I value my privacy. Unfortunately, suppressing feelings and keeping things private does not lead to a successful memoir.
I'm going to focus on revising my book for the next couple of months. I'm relieving myself of the obligation of regularly publishing this blog. It depends on how I feel. If I'm procrastinating on revising my memoir, you may get a blog post. But if you don't hear from me for a while, it's because I'm busy opening my veins and letting the literary blood spill. I might fail. But I'm going to give it everything I've got.
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