The conclusion — for now.

It can’t be helped.

As I crawl out of the other side of my depression, I find that writing is too much a part of my life to quit it.

My characters are almost family members, their stories important to tell. My husband and I talk about them:
“Do you think Grace’s parents had talents?”
“No, but I think they figured Grace had a latent music talent, and that’s why they hid her in the Renaissance Children school.”
I sometimes wish I could have coffee with one of them — the fey Josh; the acerbic Lilith; androgynous, impish Amarel; intense and troubled Greg.

Their worlds are hidden in plain sight from mine, and if I turn around just right, I’ll be at Barn Swallows’ Dance or the coffeehouse where Jeanne and Josh met or the Ancestors’ Room in the Chinese restaurant in McKinley Park neighborhood or the meeting room in the main Kansas City library, sitting in while Future Past meets. I have not managed to find these places in real life, so I write to create them.

About publishing — I’ve decided I will try Gaia’s Hands, the one that’s currently not winning the Kindle Scout process, with a Quaker press. My only sadness about this is, if it’s published, it will be preaching to the choir. I’ll turn Voyagers in to Kindle Scout somewhere around then. If those don’t sell, at least I’ve published and can kick that off the bucket list.

I will always be looking for leads. If you have a friend of a friend who knows of an unusual publishing house, please let me know.

Dissecting Gaia’s Hands and Learning Nothing Yet.

Maybe Gaia’s Hands wasn’t the best book to enter to Kindle Scout.

I’ve proofread it, demolished it, paired it with another book, trimmed that back so that I have two instead of four main characters, re- and re-proofed it, and still when I look at it I wonder if it’s a solid novel.

I’ve never known what to do with it. I love its plot lines — discovering one’s mystical abilities, a convincingly menacing pattern of harassment to one of the main characters, a taboo May-December romance (taboo because the woman is older than the man). I adore its characters — a talented botany professor, a precocious young poet, his best friend the surly engineer, the refined yet hangdog lab assistant Ernie, enigmatic waitress Annie, and even the smooth dean and hostile department chair Jeanne has to face.

But I’ve never known what to do with the book. The scenes almost come off as vignettes, with the connections between strands unapparent at first. The plot is subtle, not as action-packed. The characters carry it, but I always wonder if the book starts too slowly. I edit it again and feel something’s not quite there, I don’t know what the “something” is. With all the improvement I’ve done in writing for the past six years, there’s something in Gaia’s Hands too quirky for prime time.

Gaia’s Hands strikes me as a YA, except the male protagonist is too old at 20, the female protagonist is way too old at 50, and there’s not enough angst. (For all the harm Twilight did to women’s expectations of men — it’s okay to be a stalker? Really? — it did angst exceedingly well. And it sold.)

I look at Gaia’s Hands and feel like it’s missing something. Despite my greater level of experience, my writing skills, better knowledge of writing dynamics — my writing is missing something, and I can’t tell what. Maybe my style, my “voice” isn’t acceptable. I don’t know, but I wish I could figure it out.

… and then, you edit

The process of writing flows for the most part — guided more or less by character and plot, fueled by coffee, words flow on the page, glowing with the aura of imminent birth. Then, the author peeks at their newborn and realizes that newborns are soggy, messy creatures.

Everyone has to edit. I made a mistake with my first book or two by thinking I didn’t need to edit. After all, I’m freakish when it comes to words — I learned to read when I was three years old (almost simultaneously with learning to speak), read the Journal of the American Medical Association in the doctor’s waiting room at age 10, things like that.

I learned that I needed to edit. This humbled me greatly.

Editing is not just proofreading, although proofreading is important. Spellcheck will never be enough — a student of mine once discussed “Elf Defense” in a final paper. It had passed spellcheck. I still giggle when I think about it, with pictures of “Legend of Zelda” dancing in my head.

Editing, in reality, includes:

Reading for flow: Does the narrative lag? Drag? Does it contain holes that characters could fall into? Conversely, does the narrative speed along, leaving the reader behind?

Reading for character: Are the characters consistent? Are inconsistencies explained? Will the reader get to know the characters? Identify with them?

Reading for word choice: Too many passive verbs? Awkward phrases? Hilarious double-meanings or mental pictures?

Reading for plot: Are there plot holes? Impossibly convoluted trails from A to Z? Is the plot dramatic enough or funny enough or whatever enough?

Time may help you with the process of editing. I know that when I have a newborn book in my hands, I can’t admit anything wrong with it. I’ve discovered if I let it sit for three months, I pick it up and can’t find anything right with it.

You may not be able to do all these types of editing yourself. If you’re so accustomed to your writing that you can’t see inconsistency in your characters, you may need other people’s help to edit. Remember that editors aren’t cheerleaders — but they are the ones who help you grow.

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To the person from France: I’m pretty sure you’re not Emmanuel Macron …