« Letters to Your Heroes | Main | The Interrogation »

April 01, 2005

The Second Book

Alright, so it isn't actually my second book; I wrote a notably bad but still complete novel before figuring out how to write competently by way of many drafts of Painkiller. And I wrote a few other, shorter stories, "semi-books" if you will, before that -- plus some screenplays, and all kinds of disjointed chapters, usually first chapters, of spy novels that never got finished, chapters that currently reside in some file cabinet somewhere like so many forlorn jigsaw puzzle pieces. But the second Cooper novel, which I am writing now, is the first "second book" in a series for me; so too is it the first "second book" under an actual publishing deal. Said publishing deal, of course, involving such things as deadlines, dollars, and, presumably, expectations.

It is also the first "second book" I've had to write while also, thankfully -- blessedly -- happily -- rewriting and copy-editing the "first book," reviewing cover art revisions, press releases, copy edits, and flap copy, building web sites, meeting and strategizing with "inside" and "outside" publicists, meeting booksellers, mapping out a potential signing tour, and managing foreign and film rights representation activities, a whole world of stress, rejection, and hope all over again.

And oh, yes, I forgot something: there remain in my life all the same factors that made that "first book" take five years (okay, seven) to get right, namely, a demanding "day job," at least two hours a day of commuting, a couple of kids, a wife I like seeing at least once in a while --

You get the idea.

It's funny -- I will never grouse, ever, about the good fortune that fell into my lap and resulted in the Painkiller publishing deal. I am living my dream. And I suppose I enjoy working hard, maybe even take the most pleasure at tackling the hardest possible challenges available to me. But I do find it funny that upon achieving one key item on my short, simple list of dreams I hope to accomplish while in this world, my life, in the short term anyway, has become one hell of a lot more challenging, and exhausting, rather than easier and more peaceful. My publishing house was kind enough to offer a two-book deal, and I jumped all over that like flies to the proverbial pile -- a writing career! I've done it! Two books! I'm in! -- and well I should have. I was practially willing, in fact, to agree to a super-aggressive deadline for delivery of the second book, partially because I understand at least a couple things about the publishing industry -- not many, but a couple -- for instance, that, unless you're Dan Brown, publishers love to build a series around the annual coinciding release of the new hardcover in the series with the prior installment's paperback...and, with this being what I want to do when I grow up and all, far be it from me to do anything besides make life easy on the generous souls and their employing corporation who've seen fit to actually pay me to write. A second Cooper novel? You got it! In one year? No problem! Sign me up! Deal! Let's rock!

The mind, however, is not good at remembering pain. It's kind of a fortunate flaw for human beings to possess -- allows us to remain just irrational enough to actually accomplish things. You forget, for instance, how hard it was to survive the first year of child-rearing with that first kid...once you clear the forest, and you're sleeping again, and this nice little two-year-old is smiling at you, you think only of the joy, and you decide to have another one -- and then you remember that you forgot how hard it was, at least until you've got another two-year-old smiling at you again.

I forgot the pain of Painkiller.

I forgot how I wore myself down to the nub, waking up at four every morning -- I am not a morning person -- to rewrite the whole goddamn thing over the course of another nine months because the prior draft wasn't fit to show to the family dog. I forgot how I did that again, and once more, and again, before I had something I was reasonably proud of. Forgot those hilarious moments, reading a book to my daughter at six-thirty at night to put her to bed, and suddenly being awoken by her: "Daddy, quit snoring! You're supposed to be reading my story!" Forgot how, when you're riding on no sleep, no energy, too much food, and too little exercise, that you catch every cold that comes anywhere near your household -- a kid sneezes in your son's daycare group and you're laid out with the shakes, hooked on Sudafed, for a week or two.

So here I am, the genius who thought he could do it all, trying to write a much better second book than first, in about one-fifth (okay, one-seventh) the time. I put things off for a couple months there -- a page here, a page there -- but I've kicked back into the deadly sleep-deprivation routine, mostly out of a fear of sheer embarassment...either of delivering late or, worse, finding out I'm not anywhere near the writer that two-book contract supposedly proclaimed me to be. So at least if I finish a draft early enough, by sleep-depriving myself now, then maybe I'll have to time to assess, and decide whether I need to pull a Tom Wolfe -- throw out a few hundred pages at a time because it ain't working, and head back into the mill to churn out some more.

Suppose being this busy makes for efficiency anyway...be nice if it turns out such a lifestyle makes for a good second book too.

Posted by Will Staeger at April 1, 2005 09:41 PM

Comments

Posted by: Dick Jenkinson at November 29, 2005 09:41 PM