Sleeping with the Editor

A GUEST POST WRITTEN BY COOKIE BOYLE

I typed THE END and checked the word count: a little more than 90,000. I’m done, I smiled. Finally, I had finished my book, the one that had been haunting me and challenging me and calling me back to complete it for years. But, like the question of a tree falling in the forest, if no one reads your manuscript, is it really a novel?
 
I had started my book before meeting my husband. Together, we had written films. We had sat in a theater proudly watching our short film screen at a film festival, and in our living room watching our Christmas movie air on television. He had given me feedback on my plays, and I gave him feedback on his scripts. But my novel was different. It predated our time together, so I thought I could and should finish it on my own.
 
As I read through the “final” draft, I delighted in small edits I could make—a typo here, an errant comma and a repeated word there. This, I thought, was polishing my book.
 
But as each week passed and I described to my husband the world of my novel, the characters and their journeys, the elephant in our home grew larger and louder, until one day I asked: “You don’t actually want to read it, do you?” hoping he’d say No.
 
“Yes! Finally! I’ve been waiting for you to ask.”
 
Rats. I misjudged that response.  

The next Saturday morning, I steeled myself for the inevitable as I presented him with the first 50 pages of my novel. He proclaimed he was going to read it right away. “Great,” I forced myself to say, walking away as quickly as I could. Would he find it funny, or at least amusing?
 
While he was downstairs reading, I was upstairs, in my little writing room, curled up on the sofa in the fetal position. What if he didn’t like it? Would that mean all 90,000 words were wasted? Did I just devote years of my life to an exercise in delusion?
 
My heart raced, my muscles tensed, and I willed myself to breathe.
 
Then I heard it. A twitter. Followed by a chuckle. And finally a laugh. I think he’s laughing with the story, I told myself, not at the story.
 
Twenty minutes later he was standing at the foot of the sofa, pages in hand. “Well done,” he said. Channeling Sally Field at the Oscars, I proclaimed “You like it? You really like it?”
 
He did. But now he wanted to read the whole novel. Over the course of the week, he read. Every. Single. Word. Even worse: he wanted to discuss it.
 
We sat down at the kitchen table and he began. Page after page, he went over the extensive notes he had made. Notes!
 
Entitled is a first-person narrative from the perspective of a Book, as it is read, loaned, lost, and abandoned. I took great care in creating the world of Books and their rules. But, he pointed out, “I’m bought in. You don’t have to keep selling me on the world.” And three paragraphs had a red line through them.
 
Then he highlighted sections where I had repeated experiences. “We’ve already seen this, three chapters ago.” Lines of text were circled in red. 
 
“I want to know how the Book feels here. Give me more.” And a plus sign pulsed at me.
 
The trouble was, he had a point. I had overwritten sections. I had repeated myself. And I could explore more of the emotional journey. I hate when he’s right, especially when it means work for me.
 
During the next hour, I saw page upon page turn before me, and edits upon edits mount.
 
It was both encouraging and exhausting, knowing I had an audience for my novel, but also knowing it wasn’t ready yet.
 
So I started on the rewrites. Comment after comment, day after day, I worked through refinements and deletions. More here. Less there.
 
Crawling into bed at night, our talk would turn to the novel. I’d tell him how it was coming along. And inevitably, he’d say: “I was thinking, in your chapter about . . . ” and make another suggestion. I begrudgingly admitted they were great ideas. So I’d write them down, turn over to indicate I didn’t want to hear anything more, and try to fall asleep. How can I get away from rewrites when I’m sleeping with my editor?
 
Then the nighttime musings turned to daytime ideation. I’d hear the phrase I came to dread: “I was thinking . . . ” I had created a monster.  
 
As the weeks passed, I tried to avoid him—difficult when you’re both working from home. When we were near each other, I started avoiding eye contact, in case he had another idea to share. Keep your head down, I told myself. Don’t give him an opening.
 
Along the way, what had started out as 90,000 words was trimmed and tightened to 75,000. Those 15,000 words are now forgotten and certainly not missed.
 
His notes brought me the confidence and perspective on the story that could only come from a good editor.
 
And when we agreed it was done, I knew my novel was ready to be shared with the world. After years of writing, and months of rewriting, we raised a glass together. Entitled was published on November 24. My husband’s birthday.
 
 
P.S. In case you are wondering, yes, he read this story too. And provided notes.
 
 
Cookie Boyle has been writing plays, films and novels for the past 20 years.
Born in Vancouver, she has worked and studied in Sydney, Paris, London, New York and San Francisco, before returning to Vancouver where she now lives. Cookie is typing as fast as she can to finish her next novel. You can read about it at www.cookieboyle.com. Or follow her on Instagram @Cookie.Boyle.

Kim Catanzarite is the author of the award-winning sci-fi thriller series The Jovian Universe. She is a freelance writer and editor for publishers and independent authors, and she teaches copyediting for Writer’s Digest University. Her Self-Publishing 101 blog discusses the ins and outs of indie life as well as all things writing craft (www.authorkimcatanzarite.com/blog). She lives on the east coast USA with her husband and daughter.