On The Dangers of Writing Fast... Faster... FASTER!!!!!!

 

Many of you saw the story in the New York Times this weekend about how the ereader phenomenon of consumers wanting their books NOW is driving established authors to write faster. It was an interesting piece, but one that I think struck a note of fear in all of our hearts. The story posits that authors who used to write one book a year are now being pushed to do more: two, even three novels, with shorts stories and novellas thrown in to bridge the gap between books, because ebook original authors are producing at an alarming pace, and traditionally published authors must do all they can to keep up.

I don't necessarily want to get into a discussion about the Us vs. Them mentality that is starting to emerge between traditionally published and self-published authors. A few vociferous people are leading this charge, and it won't take you many keystrokes to find them and their opinions. Nor do I want to delve into the fact that quantity does not necessarily equal quality.

No, I'd rather look at this phenomenon emerging of fast writing, and this sudden conversation cropping up in the recesses about how fast you really can write a book.

How fast is fast enough?

Different books take different efforts. Some are hugely labor intensive. Some are research heavy. Some tap into terribly difficult emotions, and are just plain difficult to write. Some write themselves. Each book is an entity unto itself.

Each writer is an entity unto him or herself, as well. Some of us can write a book in three months. Some claim to be able to write one in two weeks. For some, five years, ten years, are the norm. For most, one book a year is a steady, reasonable pace. It allows for research, writing, editing, proper time for reviews and marketing and tours. If you're familiar with everything that happens in the course of writing a book, you'd know that it is hardly languorous. Yet suddenly, people are claiming one book a year is too slow.

I personally write two books a year. Not because that's what the market is demanding of me, but because it naturally takes me on average six months to write a book. But I don't have children, and writing is my job. I've been a full-time writer from the beginning of my career, and have been blessed with the right mix of people and timing and mastering my own learning curve to figure out an appropriate, comfortable pace for ME.

But there are many ways up the mountain.

Listen, literature is not one size fits all. Every writer I know, regardless of how quickly they produce books, are working hard, every day. Grinding it out. I have a friend whose output is maybe 100 words a day - 100 proud, keepable words a day. I have another who feels short if she doesn't hit 5,000. I fall in between - averaging 1,000 minimum, and when I'm really in the groove, easily in the 3-4,000 range. I write fast, yes, in comparison to some, but not in comparison to others.

The premise of the article hinted that readers may start abandoning their favorites who put out one book a year in favor of lesser known, new-to-them authors who are cranking out a book every two to three months. This is a theme in the new Us vs. Them mentality, and it's one that's going to get all of us in trouble.

Thriller author Steve Berry is quoted at the end of the NYT article with what I felt was the most salient thought in the whole piece. He said, "You don’t ever want to get into a situation where your worth is being judged by the amount of your productivity.”

I couldn't agree more with that statement. Especially for the writers who do take a full year (or more) to write a book. We've got a lot of pressure on ourselves as it is, with the advent (necessary evil?) of increased self-promotion - social networking, marketing and PR - in addition to writing. To start getting into the mindset that oh, hey, I'm not a good enough writer because I can't crank out five books a year is dangerous.

It will stifle creativity. It will drive the muse off a cliff. It will cause divorces and suicides and make writers quit entirely. You think I'm kidding? I'm not. We are artists, for better or for worse. And while not all of us are long-suffering, the artistic mentality is, at its heart, a delicate creature that must be fed and nurtured if it will continue to produce. Think of a farm, with acres planted, rows and rows and rows of corn. If the corn isn't watered and fertilized and cared for, it dries up and rots. Words, and Muses, and Writers, are the exact same.

I often gets fan mail that ends with the words "Write Faster." It's actually kind of a joke in my house - hubby tells me that all the time. Because ultimately, the more we write, the more we get paid, and eating and paying the mortgage is a Good Thing. We all want to make money at this, and the simple fact is, more product equals more money.

But we have to take care of our gift, as well. The Muse doesn't delight in being shackled to a desk and forced to spill words onto the page all day every day. Yes, we want more readers. I want more readers. But if I start mentally outsourcing my Muse to a factory in China, chances are, there's going to be some problems. Strikes. Lawsuits. Closures.

Writing fast is becoming expected. And that could lead to some serious burnout, and the loss of some great writers.

One of my favorite quotes is from Lao Tzu: "When you are content not to compare or compete, everyone will respect you."

I think that's doubly true for writing. Work hard. Meet your deadlines. Write smart. That in and of itself will make you fast. But don't try to compare yourself to other writers and their output, and don't cave to the pressure of writing fast if that's not your nature. That way lies madness.

 

On Great News: More Samantha Books Coming!

Whoo-hoo! As reported in today's Publishers Marketplace, I am so excited to announce that Harlequin Mira and I have contracted for three more Samantha Owens thrillers! 

Fiction: Mystery/Crime   

JT Ellison's next three untitled novels, continuing the story of medical examiner Dr. Samantha Owens, to Miranda Indrigo at Mira, in a good deal, by Scott Miller at Trident Media Group.

Miranda is my new editor, and she's the absolute bomb. Just wait until December 1, when EDGE OF BLACK comes out, you'll see even more of her steady hand at work. She tweets @7thfloorwindow, you should follow. She is très amusant.

Thanks to all my fantastic readers and the lovely booksellers and librarians and book bloggers, et al, who've thrown in their lot with Samantha and Xander and Fletcher. We, and they, are most grateful to you all.

And as always, my awesome agent Scott Miller (@litagentmiller) made the magic happen, so I raise a glass to him. Never, ever underestimate the value of an excellent agent.

I know many of you are wondering where Taylor is. I felt like it was in her best interest to let her take a vacation for a while. Don't worry, I'll go back to her and Baldwin's story, and yes, I know what happens to them. But for the moment, let's allow the poor girl some time to recuperate, and get a killer tan. 

So with that, I say thusly, unto thees: Laissez les bons temps rouler!

On Keeping Your Writing Habits

 

I attended a fantastic event over the weekend, the Heart of Dixie's annual luncheon. Heart of Dixie is the RWA chapter for the Huntsville, Alabama area. It was a very fun day, full of lots of amazing authors and readers. And I am thrilled to announce that I've been asked to come back next year and be their keynote speaker. It's my first romance oriented keynote, and I'm already planning out what I may want to cover.

I got to meet the incredibly prolific Lora Leigh. Prolific, as in she used to write 12-14 books a year, and now has backed off to between 6-8. That's a lot of books. Makes me feel positively anemic by comparison.

My table at the luncheon was filled with both readers and aspiring writers, so the conversation flitted from topic to topic, but eventual landed on my writing habits. I had asked Lora Leigh if she is able to work on multiple books at once or if she's a one and at time girl, and she answered she was one at a time. I'm like that too. I find it difficult to juggle too many projects at once.

I shared my process with my table, how I feel I must write 1000 words a day. I really should have said in order to meet my own writing goals, I must average 1000 words a day. Because that's much closer to the truth. To say I write a 1000 words a day is disingenuous. Life gets in the way. Edits come in and need handling. You get sick, pets die, family members need your attention. You get up in the morning and just plain don't feel like working, and instead pour a cup of tea and grab a nice juicy historical romance and lose yourself in that world. 

I want to write every day. I really do. But the truth of the matter is, I don't.

In all honestly, I haven't been writing. For a while now.

It's not that I haven't been WORKING, quite the opposite. I loved this great piece on what life is like as a published author. It's very true, and exactly what's been happeneing here at Chez Ellison: The tour to handle, all the PR and interviews and blogs, revisions on Edge of Black, touchups to another project, the website to redo, a short story to plot, my previous shorts to put on sale, bios to update, books to read, research to be done, ideas to ponder, closets to straighten, Rita dresses to shop for, and a few other rather important things that shall not be named as of yet going on. I'm utterly exhausted come 6pm, and ready to turn off the computer and veg out in front of the TV.

But as far as creating? As in new ideas, new words on the page creating? 

Nope.

The longer I go like this, the more nervous I get. It happens about twice a year - usually right around release time. I know myself well enough to know that the habit of writing is almost more important than the writing itself. And when I finally sit back down to the page, it's going to be a rough few days. But the words will come, the daily counts will start adding back up, and by mid-July, I'll have a chunk of work behind me. 

But it's these in-between moments, when I've just finished a book and am about to start another, that I start getting hard on myself. Nora Roberts takes a day off between books. So does Allison Brennan. And if I want to emulate the people I greatly respect, I need to start cutting back on the in-between books downtime. I've taken almost a month this time, and while it's been lovely, I'm getting really antsy. I think I've finally decided that it's time to offload some of my writerly duties to someone else. And we all know how great I am at giving up control. 

So wish me luck this week as I attempt to let go. And get my writing habit back on track.

On Transforming Dr. Samantha Owens

(This essay appeared on the Harlequin Blog April 30, 2012)

We writers have voices in our heads. It’s just a fact of life. The voices speak to us, we write their words on the page, and people read the stories and are captivated, drawn into a land of make believe.

All right. Let’s be honest and call this what it really is. Controlled psychosis.

You laugh, but think about it. Where else in the world are you allowed to let the little voices in your head control your thoughts, your words, and your deeds? Hmmm?

Most writers are loners, happily spinning yarns with their imaginary friends day in and day out. There are a few of us who are extroverts, who don’t like being alone, who thrive on connection, and communication with the real world. The rest of us are completely happy left to our own devices. We’re the ones who would survive solitary confinement – there would be so much time to create, to allow characters to develop and ripen into the kind of people we are fascinated with. Whores and heroes, cowboys and queens and teachers, private investigators and cops, and of course, no story in the crime genre would be complete without a medical examiner.

My medical examiner has existed for several years. Dr. Samantha Owens was first written as the foil to my main character, homicide lieutenant Taylor Jackson. In her very first foray onto the page, many books ago, she scrapes something off a dead body into an evidence collection bag and promptly takes a deep long whiff. I knew immediately this wasn’t a weak woman. As her character evolved, she became more than a foil – she was the conscience of the Jackson series. It was inevitable that I’d write a book with her at the center, she’s got too much spark to ignore, or resist.

Thankfully, my agent and the fine folks at Mira agreed, and off I went into Samantha’s world, whistling a happy tune.

But Sam’s story was about to take a turn for the worse. Any time you have a spin off series, it’s good to give the lead character some space from their previous role. In my case, I went to the extreme, and killed off her husband and children. Clean slate. Clean break.

Heartbreaking, though. And very hard for me. I’d grown attached to the characters, was living vicariously through Sam’s mothering of her children. I have none of my own, despite years of trying, and it was fun to have a set of twins on the page to play with. And Simon, her husband, had been a fixture in the series since the first unpublished manuscript, earnest and supportive and smart.

I’ve learned that sacrifices must be made to be true to your art. They do say to murder your darlings. In this case, with a spin-off, set in Washington, D.C. instead of Nashville, that sacrifice had to be Sam’s family.

The loss changes her. Instead of the strong woman from the Jackson novels, this Samantha Owens is delicate. Almost as if she were burned over 80% of her body, and the flesh has grown back a translucent pink; no longer her armor, but simply a sheet covering her pain, one that can be ripped off at a moment’s notice. Her scars may be internal, but she must overcome them daily just to function.

This decision also gave me a chance to have a clear reference to the huge losses Nashville experienced during the 2010 floods. It is a fortuitous sign that the book releases on the second anniversary weekend. We’ve rebuilt, but so many lost so much, and I wanted to have a tribute, a shout out, to my city.

I hope you enjoy the kinder, gentler version of Samantha. She’s still a tough cookie, but now she’s every woman, every man, who’s experienced a loss. Someone to identify with, and to root for. Someone who shows us that hope springs eternal, and you can survive even the worst of experiences.

On the death of a bird

 

Last night, a small bird came to our back deck to die.

We went out to grill, and there it was - old, and clearly in its final moments. We brought it some water, which was refused. I said a prayer, and told it not to fight too hard, and we left it to its course, checking occasionally to see if the time had come. It was not a gentle, nor quick death. The birds sang in the yard, a song of silence, and I was compelled to find something to mark this lone being's solitary and inevitable passage. 

This is what I found, and was somewhat comforted. 

 

Death of the Bird

 by Alec Derwent Hope

 

For every bird there is this last migration;

Once more the cooling year kindles her heart;

With a warm passage to the summer station

Love pricks the course in lights across the chart.

 

Year after year a speck on the map, divided

By a whole hemisphere, summons her to come;

Season after season, sure and safely guided,

Going away she is also coming home.

 

And being home, memory becomes a passion

With which she feeds her brood and straws her nest,

Aware of ghosts that haunt the heart's possession

And exiled love mourning within the breast.

 

The sands are green with a mirage of valleys;

The palm tree casts a shadow not its own;

Down the long architrave of temple or palace

Blows a cool air from moorland scarps of stone.

 

And day by day the whisper of love grows stronger;

That delicate voice, more urgent with despair,

Custom and fear constraining her no longer,

Drives her at last on the waste leagues of air.

 

A vanishing speck in those inane dominions,

Single and frail, uncertain of her place,

Alone in the bright host of her companions,

Lost in the blue unfriendliness of space.

 

She feels it close now, the appointed season;

The invisible thread is broken as she flies;

Suddenly, without warning, without reason,

The guiding spark of instinct winks and dies.

 

Try as she will, the trackless world delivers

No way, the wilderness of light no sign;

Immense,complex contours of hills and rivers

Mock her small wisdom with their vast design.

 

The darkness rises from the eastern valleys,

And the winds buffet her with their hungry breath,

And the great earth, with neither grief nor malice,

Receives the tiny burden of her death.

 

A burden, and a gift.

Namaste.