My sister Nancy has a theory, or at least she did when we were growing up: that the world is quietly spinning faster with each passing year. That was how she explained the complaint of every grownup—that time goes by faster and faster, the older we get.

Much as I’d love for my sister to be wrong (sibling rivalry never dies), I’d really appreciate someone proving this particular theory. Wouldn’t it be great to have a scientific explanation for such a universal experience? And it makes sense: when we come into the world, we assume the current rate of spin is normal. As our globe twirls faster and faster, the next generation climbs on and self-adjusts to the accelerated rate—the new normal. And so on.

I was twelve when Nancy first explained this to me, two years younger than her older daughter is now.  In those days, waiting for the next Saturday was just one step short of sheer torture. A decade later, months went by at a reasonable clip. A decade after that, seasons began to change well before they dragged into dull. Last year, even winter seemed too short. And then a few days ago I realized—hey! Where did this first tenth of the 21st century GO?

One of the many reasons I enjoy losing myself in the pages of a good novel is that time often slows down. Sure, a good action scene goes by in a flash, eyes chasing forward across words and paragraphs to make sure a favorite character survives with no lasting scars. But a great writer can also slow time to a turtle crawl, allowing us the luxury of time to smell, taste, hear, and savor the world the writer has created. (And maybe as a result, better understand the time-pressured one in which we live.)

When I get lost in my own writing I can even reverse time, turning the clock back to a world that was gone long before I was born. I sniff a distant harbor, trim the luffing sails overhead, feel the bow plunging into waves bigger than I’ve ever imagined before. Even as I edit, I luxuriate in bringing to life a scene that, up until now, existed only inside my head. Did it really happen? Well, no. But could it have happened? That’s the important question.

The non-linear aspect of creative writing adds to this time warp. In order to tell the story I know is hiding within the first draft, I have to spend more time than can really be justified to figure out the best possible word or phrase. Does it need another scene, or one less piece of dialogue?  The only justification is the end result.  So the hard work of telling the story—the actual wordcraft—reinforces the time-stretching too.

Is it any wonder that the faster our world spins, the more people discover the luxury of writing and reading?

And this, for me, is why books will continue to be valued as we rush ahead into yet another decade. Whether we choose to read on recycled paper, on a screen large or small, or on some not-yet-invented substrate, the stories we experience on the biggest screen of all—the one between our ears—allow us to adjust the passage of time to our own preference.

Even if my sister’s theory isn’t true, that will be a real comfort in the shorter and shorter decades that lie ahead.

Update:  Listen to an NPR story on this same subject.

I’ve recently taken on two new office assistants. Ben is the white collar guy, while Jerry’s partial to stripes. They live with our neighbors, but they like to help me out during the day.

As you can see, the two working together provide great inspiration: Go Take A Nap. And when the words aren’t cooperating, I hardly need any more encouragement in that direction.

When the writing flows easily, effortlessly, I don’t even remember they are sleeping right beside my desk – until one stretches, yawns, and pushes harder against his brother.  I’m off in another world, turning storms into sunshine and sailing schooners on the high seas.  It would take more than a sleeping cat or two to distract me, cute as they are… when the writing flows easily.

Which brings me (finally) to my title question. I recently finished a rough draft of the sequel to Oliver’s Surprise, though “finished” seems like a very inappropriate word.  As only my fellow fiction writers will appreciate, now the hardest work begins. Because the story isn’t a story yet, even though it has (almost, mostly) completed its first major transition: from imagination to words.

Say you want to create a sculpture of two sleeping cats.  Starting with a large block of stone, you chip away until paws and ears and tails appear.  As you work, you try to bring out the softness of the fur and the fine texture of the whiskers, distinguishing to the best of your sculpting ability between orange stripes and an all-white belly.  The subtleties are an enormous challenge when working in stone, which is neither soft, nor fine in texture, nor color-sensitive.  But those same subtleties are what will bring your sculpture to life.

To create a story, writers must first build that initial block.  Instead of stone, we heap words on top of each other, lots of words – until we have a squared-off approximation of a beginning, middle, and end.  Only then can we start chipping away, using the writerly equivalent of a set of sharp chisels to sculpt out the story.

Hence the term, “rough draft.”

The only way for me to find the story hiding in the rough is to cuddle up with my unfinished sculpture, picking away at a word here, or there… until, aha!  A whisker appears.

It’s slow work, and there’s little to show for my efforts; while writing the rough draft, at least I was increasing my word count. Now, in this editorial chiseling phase, I usually end up with fewer words at the end of the day.

And yet it’s immensely satisfying, because this phase brings the story to life.  Look!  I think I see an ear.  White-tipped, with tufts of orange fur inside…

It’s so easy to think a story is finished when it first begins to take shape, but there’s still a lot more work ahead.

The best stories, the ones we remember, are constructed from a careful set of details that can only be laced together (in the right order, using the right words) once the writer figures out the big picture.

A chicken and egg question: is the story built from the details, or do details emerge from the story?  It might be different for other writers; for me I do best when I focus on the little pieces, trusting that an overall shape and texture will eventually appear.

Fortunately, we writers (unlike our friend the sculptor) can move sections around or even tack on a whole new piece when we realize something’s missing.  Perhaps we think we’re writing a story about one cat, and as we chip away we realize there’s another one lurking in the shadows.  A few carefully chosen words, et voila!  Double the felines, double the fun.

And, look, over there; hiding behind all those soon to be chipped-away adverbs – could that be a curled-up tail I see?

The Writer builds the story...

One of the most challenging aspects of being a writer, especially in today’s world,  is that we must wear at least three hats. First we don our Writer cap (a hard hat, of course) and construct a story that is original or funny or touching or, even better, all of the above.

...the Editor Within makes it better...

Once the creative side is complete (and only the Writer knows when that is), we unleash the Editor Within (EW).  Somehow I am picturing red and white Dr. Seuss stripes for EW’s hat: she’s so annoying, but she’s the only one who can finish the job, editing and forming and molding the first draft into a perfect collection of words.  Editing does for writing what an old friend says ketchup does for food:  It makes the bad stuff good and the good stuff better.  And it  is the only way to actually communicate the real story to someone who didn’t write it.

On the best days, the Writer and the EW work hand in hand and the story develops into something different, better than anything the Writer could have come up with on her own.   It wasn’t until I was deep into editing Oliver’s Surprise that I discovered the story wasn’t about a boy and his skiff (as I’d originally thought); it was about a boy and a schooner.  Only my EW could’ve figured that out.

Most of the time, the Writer wants to muzzle the Editor Within and lock her up in the attic.  It’s probably mutual.

The last hat we must all wear is that of Marketing Director. (This is the fashionable one of the group who actually looks great in hats, partly because they are perched on top of perfectly quaffed hair above a thin, elegant neck.)

...and the Marketing Director sends it out into the world.

All of us who are serious about writing, even if we’re living quite contentedly under a rock, must find a way to get our stories Out There and share them with the real world.  Selling stories is a completely different skill set from writing them, and it’s the last thing we thought we’d have to do when we set out to be writers. But it’s also one of the most important differences between writing for fun and writing as a career.

Literary Agent Rachelle Gardner has written an excellent blog post on Why You Should Help Sell Your Book.

Because these three skills are so different, it’s important to only wear one hat at any given time.  Otherwise the skills required by one will bleed into the other, and none of it will get done well.

As different as Doctor, Lawyer, Indian Chief, and we must do them all equally well.  How do you make the transition between the three hats?

“Write with the door closed, rewrite with the door open.” Stephen King, “On Writing”

It’s been a busy year since “Oliver’s Surprise” went to press.  Book signings, visits to book stores, meetings with the publisher, author blogs.  Best of all has been talking with so many kids and adults who’ve taken Oliver into their imaginations. He’s brought smiles to faces on near and distant shores, and I’m sure that will continue with the second edition.

Now, after a full year of revising, designing, marketing, and of course selling books, it’s back to writing: I’m working on a sequel.  On mornings when the sunshine and perfect temps are calling me to join them outside, I’m sitting down at my desk and trying to figure out What Happens Next.  Some days it’s worth the sacrifice, and the story line flows through my fingers onto the screen.  Some days I check my email way too often.  On the worst days, I give up before lunch and write a blog post instead.  One way or another, I’ll get this next story written.

What I’m learning is that after such an exciting period of diving into the nuts and bolts to get my book Out There, it’s simply impossible to rewind and write from that innocent place that created the first Oliver.  That’s even more the case since the first book wasn’t originally written to be published.

For that and many other reasons, the next book will be different.

I’m often disappointed by sequels.  I go looking for more about my favorite character, only to find s/he has moved or grown up or changed too much to be recognizable.  And yet I wouldn’t want to read exactly the same story all over again; that would be too much like a  “formula” book.  I always have the feeling that formula authors start with a plot outline  and just fill in the blanks next to the characters’ names.  Lucrative, for sure, since publishers are always looking for more than one book.  But that’s not what I’m after.

What I’m after is to write a BETTER book.  More depth, more details, more drama.  All that without (hopefully) ruining the quiet charm that so many liked about the original.  And the only way to do that is to close the door and just write, trusting the characters to show me the way forward.

So for the next few weeks or months I’m going to close the door, maybe setting a brick or two on the floor to keep it shut.  I’ll muzzle the editor within.  Send  the marketing director to an island resort with a faulty internet connection.  I’ll write what comes to mind, without thinking about how it fits into the creative arc or who’s going to buy this crap.  It’s the only way for me to figure out What Happens Next.

And for now, I’m keeping mum about any and all story details.  I have a direction and a plan, but I’m not completely sure yet what will come of it.  Only this morning, Oliver threw me another curve ball. We’ll get there, together, with him leading me most of the time.  Then and only then will I start editing, and find out what I really meant to say.

What is it that you like or don’t like about sequels?  How closely should they follow the original story?  Let me know what you think, and maybe your comments will spur my creative process.

Newly Installed Ceiling Fan

“…If you ever get annoyed
Look at me I’m self-employed
I love to work at nothing all day.” (lyrics from Bachman-Turner Overdrive’s “Taking Care of Business“)

We’ve all seen the commercials touting the benefits of the work-at-home, freelance life.  Though I don’t have any pink fuzzy bedroom slippers to knock together while on conference calls, I also don’t own any suits… unless you count the “bathing” variety.  After all, spending money on clothes that impress is completely unnecessary when I’m the only one in the office.

After fifteen years of working out of my home office, I wouldn’t trade it for anything. No one glares at me over the cubicle wall if I giggle on the phone with a friend in the middle of the day.  Best of all,  I set my own schedule, make my own list of priorities, and dodge the worst of office politics. And if a call comes in for canvas work… I accept.  I don’t have to limit myself to anything less than the entire crazy roster of my skills.

I’ve also learned to give myself some structure.  I start the day with a workout (biking, running, or this time of year, swimming) without worrying about what the timeclock will say when I punch in.  After a shower, I eat breakfast at my desk.  By the time I’m finished, I’ve usually caught up with the overnight accumulation of email and can start in on that day’s project.

I write better and ideas flow more easily in the morning, so I try to get any creative work out of the way first.  Afternoon is the time for sending out new quotes, researching background for stories, bookkeeping, and pounding the airwaves for new work.  When I’m focused on a job or excited about a pending project, nothing can distract me short of the house burning down.  On days (like today) when the sunshine and warm breeze make it hard to focus, I give in and  knock off a little early.  I’ve learned that I’ll make up the hours and do a better job by coming back to work after dinner or skipping the next lunchbreak.

The downside (and of course there is one) is that it’s hard to delineate work and what, for lack of a better term, I’ll call non-work.  This past holiday weekend was a perfect example.  Relaxing on our front porch on Saturday afternoon, a quick email check was only three steps away.   That of course led to just a little editing… and next thing I know, it’s dinner time.  I have to be careful to stay away from the desk and the computer on “off” days so that home is still a place to relax.

The good news is that I love what I do and how closely connected my work is to the rest of my life.  Though there’s a clear line between billable and not billable hours, there’s no way to put a price on an idea sparked by a magazine article I read while I’m actively avoiding my email.  And who knows what next book idea will come from an afternoon sail around the island?

Working at home isn’t for everyone, but for me it’s a luxury.  And best of all, when a call comes to go to a regatta… I go.  No boss is standing between me and my sailing, except, of course, the ultimate boss:  the bank account and how much is left in it.

Time to go for that sail and spark the next book idea.

“Which do you like better, sailing or writing?”

The kid was part of an eager group I spoke to at the Melrose School here in Jamestown.  I tossed him an off the cuff answer: “I like sailing in the summer and writing in the winter,”  which didn’t really satisfy either of us. And the answer I came up with a moment later, “My favorite thing is writing about sailing,” was too late and too trite.  I’d really never thought to compare the two skills before.

Sailing (especially the semi-pro racing I do) rewards fast reaction time – blink and the opportunity is gone. Sometimes it only becomes apparent minutes later how expensive one bad decision was.  That’s why we all enjoy rehashing races at the end of the day, with others who were struggling to react to the same clues. It’s the only chance we get to think over what we did or didn’t do, what worked and what didn’t.

The best races seem effortless, but they are actually a series of snap decisions based on instinct.  There’s no time to revise your first thought, no room for hesitation.  To quote my friend Tim Murphy, there’s no place like the right time.  On days when your instincts line up with the conditions, sailing is like shooting baskets with an invisible piece of shockcord tied to the ball – there’s no place it can go but in.

Writing is like shooting baskets with your eyes closed, surrounded by plate glass windows. Until you know where the story is going, you can’t make any decisions – you just have to keep writing and hope you don’t break anything.  Then, when you’re “finished”, the real work of editing begins. And that’s the true joy of writing, for me; aligning the details and eliminating the dead weight to drag out the story that was waiting, patiently, for me to dig down and find it.