As London is currently under six feet of snow, I've found myself snowbound, with nothing to do but cruise the Internet and rewatch my
Futurama DVDs for the trillionth time. Time to continue the epic tale of getting
my novel published.
SO...
The manuscript had been sent, the publisher was impressed, and
Shelf Monkey was pretty much accepted. Or so I thought. My editor Jen asked to meet with me, to go over some plot points (minor, I was sure), and so I packed up my copy of
Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norell, and set out on the next available train to the wondrous playland know as Toronto, or T.O., or now, T-Dot. Don't ask, it's just not worth it.
In my mind, I expected pomp, circumstance, and acclaim, envisioning the Hollywood publishing companies I'd drooled over in films such as
Wolf and...well, that's the only one I could think of, but if it was good enough for Jack Nicholson, it would suit me fine. Of course, reality has a nasty habit of crushing my expectations, and while I love ECW Press, and knew it was a small independent publisher, somehow I expected something...grander.
But Jen was warm and welcoming, and she and I sat down to hammer out what she viewed as possible areas for improvement. Now, I love criticism, I crave it like some crave salt, I never feel fully at ease when I'm singled out for praise, but I felt certain that
Shelf Monkey was perfect. There might be some surface changes, but on the whole, a solid piece of literature. Yes, I'm delusional, don't go there, okay? But as Jen laid out her thoughts, and as I smiled broadly, I felt a sinking feeling in my colon: she didn't think it was perfect. And she was right.
After a few hours of talk, and a lunch that consisted of the single finest omelette I have ever eaten (wish I could remember the name of the restaurant), I headed home, my notepad brimming with ideas and suggestions, and my ego bruised but already healing. I got home and set to work on the rewrite, sure it would take only a few days, two weeks, tops.
Four months later...The original manuscript was 60,000 words, by no means a
Neal Stephenson-sized epic, but not something to be ashamed of. The new rewrite? 85,000 words. Somehow, without meaning to do anything but add a line here, a word there, I increased
Shelf Monkey's length by 25,000 words. But now it was ready, now it was done.
Right?
Tune in next week, same bat-time, same bat-channel, for -
The Contract.
Labels: editing, publishing, Shelf Monkey