Posts Tagged ‘sequel’
Behind the Scenes: Copyedits
I received my copyedits for Prized two weeks ago, along with marginalia from my editor.

A.Copyedits and Marginalia
We work with the Track Changes feature of Word at this point, and when I first received the manuscript, I shrank down the pages to get a general idea of how many comments I’d be dealing with (see Photo A). The purple comments from Jill Freshney, the managing editor, have to do with formatting, so I largely ignore those. The green ones are from Suzette Costello, the copyeditor who, incidentally, also did the copyediting for Birthmarked and remembers things like Gaia’s customary gesture with her hair and points out where she’d be likely to do it again. Amazing. Suzette catches things like when I turn a cloak into a shawl, put a space in “anymore,” mix up the names of players on my teams, or say “boys turn into girls” when I really mean “girls turn into boys.” She’s a mind reader with a very precise eye. Her suggestions take little soul searching for me, and I almost always accept them.
The aqua comments are from Nan Mercado, my editor, and these are substantive. Though Nan and I have been discussing drafts of the novel since March, this is the first chance we’ve had for line-by-line feedback, and reading her notes in the margins is like having an extra voice along in my mind while I’m writing, a friend who pauses to call attention when anything could be clearer. She might say, “This line seems slightly out of character for the narration, no? It’s a direct statement about how Gaia is, instead of her state of mind at the moment,” or “I like how this will be echoed later in the scene with cadaver, but I’m not sure I believe that she would examine a corpse in this moment. She was so weak, why would that occur to her?” They tend to be open-ended questions that I could solve in any number of ways, and there are very few I disregard. Even then, I consider carefully before I make no change.
As I go, I keep in mind the broader comments Nan included in her accompanying letter, with feedback from her intern, too. Stacy Herman hasn’t read Birthmarked, so her fresh perspective helps me think about what might be missing for readers who come to Prized having no familiarity with the back-story. Explaining old business requires a delicate balance because I dread boring returning readers with repetition, but I don’t want new readers lost.
The last thing I consider is another draft of my own that I kept revising while the book was ostensibly out of my hands. You can see it in the background of the screen (see Photo B). That tinkering gets merged into this draft, too, and I need to make sure it is scrupulously clean because the book is now post-copyedits. How awful it would be to throw in extra errors at this point.

C. After Folding in Copyedits, etc.
Here’s what the manuscript looks like once I’ve made my changes (see Photo C). You maybe can’t see it, but the red indicates new changes in the text, and I deleted the comments from the margins as I went, leaving only a few that I’m still pondering. I have about sixty pages left to go, so I’ll be done in a couple days, but I’d like to take one more chance to read through the whole thing at normal speed, just to make sure it all works.
In case you can’t tell: I love this part of the process. I could not do it without Jill, Suzette, Nan and Stacy. Never think my novel is the work of one person.
The Terror and the Trust of Not Outlining
I’m a seat-of-the-pantser. I’ve done books using an outline before when I plotted out romances in ten chapters (major intimacy in Chapter 7) so I know it’s possible, but that is not how I wrote Birthmarked, and it is not working for the sequels. The main problem is that I have to be in the scene, imagining it, in order to live where it’s going with Gaia. Since she can’t see into the future, neither can I. If the reader is to be surprised, I must be, too. But that’s a bit of a cop-out. The truth is that I don’t outline for Gaia because I just can’t. My mind isn’t working that way. I have an idea of one scene I’m heading towards with Book 3, like I had a scene I was writing toward with Birthmarked, but it’s still very open-ended, and I like the comfort of knowing it could go anywhere. Uncertainty helps me be creative.

Seat-of-the-Pantsing
Uncertainty is also terrifying, because I’ll go in plenty of wrong directions before I find what will work. I’ve just had a rather torturous experience writing Prized, where the first draft was 450 unwieldy pages long. For months, I kindly referred to it as “dog rot.” Yet I had to write it to discover what was going on. Nine drafts later, after lopping off 50-page sections left and right and writing dozens of new scenes, the novel now has a tight plot, and I’m so happy with it that I relish the minute tinkering of the line-by-line and can hardly bear to give that up in order to work on the next book.
It has been gently suggested to me that perhaps I could write a short first draft of Book 3 just to get the blocks in place before I embellish. Believe me. I’d love to. I think it will help that I’m writing full-time now, and not trying to keep the mental continuity going over 25-minute lunch breaks. But I also know that I just have to write a first draft, whatever its messy length, because once I get to the end, I’ll be able to see the entire arc of the story, with all its surprises and holes. I trust that this seat-of-the-pants, butt-on-the-couch process will work for me.
Just for kicks, here’s an example of how the opening of Prized changed. In the first draft, the opening lines were as follows:
The infant took two weak, reflexive sucks on the bottle, and then her lips went slack. Gaia shifted closer to the firelight and watched the baby’s chest for the swell that would confirm she was still breathing.
Bad news, but quiet. Seven months and five drafts later, the opening became this:
She grabbed the hilt of her knife and scrambled backward into the darkness, holding the baby close in her other arm. Beyond the fire, the wasteland was still, as if the wind and even the stones had frozen in the night to listen, and then she heard it again, a soft chink that could be metal or a boot adjusting against pebbles.
Outlining, obviously, has nothing to do with how I write. Thank goodness.



