If it works, it works

I’ve been writing all my life. At the start, my cousin and I filled yellow legal pad after yellow legal pad with a rambling Dungeons and Dragons type Sword and Sorcery story; it went on and on and on. I hesitate to call it a novel, at this point, since it had no real over-arching plot, but hey… at least we were dedicated to it.

What I’m saying is: Writing has always been something that I do. It’s been natural and flowing and carefree, but ever since the four or so years ago when I decided to get serious about my favorite pastime and try to turn it into a career, the idea of a “suggested” word count length has hung over my head like a guillotine ready to drop. In fact, if I had to choose, the “suggested” word count would be the one thing I really worry about.

Everywhere you turn, the numbers shake out about the same:

90,000 to 100,000ish for a first time novel.

120,000 to 130,000ish, maybe, if it’s a genre book.

And what was my final draft before this last batch of edits?

177,823

Huge.

But here’s the problem: I’m just telling the story. Sure, I have since gone back and cut extra words and a few scenes that never really did what they were supposed and a few moments that repeat themselves, yadda, yadda, yadda, but still, even being generous, in the end, let’s guess that I’ll end up cutting about 25,000 words, give or take. That’s a ton, true, but once all of the dust and the hoop-la settles?

Final word count: 152,823

That’s still in the stratosphere as far as the commonly held belief goes. But what options do I have? I consider myself very open to suggestions, critiques, and edits, at least… I try to be. My end goal here is to put out the best product I can, and I recognize that you need outside eyes to accomplish this, but I’ll be honest with you…

After this initial 25,000 is gone, I do not believe there will be a significant number of words left to still cut out. And another 20,000? No way. Not without cutting the story too deep and sacrificing in a “bad” way, in my opinion. At that point, I think I’d be risking the book’s soul, doing more harm than good. It’s a fine line, I know, between being cautious and being obstinate, but really, I’m honestly trying to walk on the side of angels here and I don’t see how it can be done.

In fact, I’d go so far as to say that it can’t be done. Can Not.

Ballsy? Yes, but that’s me, baby.

Anyway, I’m paranoid enough about this, this goddamn word count thing (and don’t people say it so snooty to? Like it’s fucking gospel? “Oh, it has to be 100,000 words or no one will even look at it, blah, blah-blah…” Ass.) …anyway, I’m so conscious of it that it is consistently the one thing I do not do, despite the fact that the majority of agents request that the word count be included in queries, but fuck that. No way am I just showing my ass like that.

Why would I?

Agents and publishers are very busy, they’re swamped with requests from people who look, walk, talk, and act just like me, and they will straight out admit that the first round of cuts is based off of arbitrary first impressions and what is more arbitrary that the “preferred word count”? So yeah, no way am I going to just hand them a free “Denied” card like that. If they ask, I’ll tell them, but otherwise… Mum’s the word.

Besides, like all how to get published “rules” go, there’s a big old BUT attached at the end and that is, in a nutshell: “If it works, it works.”

And that gives me hope.

Case in point: Joe Abercrombie.

Joe writes fantasy books, dark, bloody and brutal, they are epic tales of well drawn “real” characters in a fantastic world of magic and murder and massive armies. 100% good time. Loved ‘em. I devoured them. And here’s the kicker:

The Blade Itself? 190,000 words.
Before They Are Hanged? 195,000 words.
The Last Argument of Kings? 230,000.
Best Served Cold? 225,000.

Now sure, the later books will usually give an author more leeway word count-wise because they have established themselves, but still… Look at that! First book, 190,000 words, but it reads like a house on fire! Blistering, baby.

But how did that happen? How did that monster manuscript land on someone’s desk (and probably break it due to the weight) and then actually get read despite its size? Short answer? I don’t know. Right day, right time, right person, luck and magic (shrug). The point is, it did get read and it got published.

So here’s hoping…

The Perils of Being a Writer (My Own Worst Enemy)

There are many things that I hope for and wish for in this world. Among them, there are of course, the usual suspects. An end to war, hunger, discrimination, things like that. There are also many other, less lofty, hopes and wishes that I have.  Like, for instance, for the Minnesota Gophers to field a competitive (much less winning) football team in 2010, or that Steve Jobs sees the error of his ways and decides to name the new Apple tablet after something other than a feminine hygiene product. Yet, high up on any list I might decide to make would be this: that someday, inshallah, I will be able to quit my frakking day job.

Now, bear with me a moment while I explain. I have had an extraordinarily horrible last couple of weeks at work. I won't go into all the details because it would just stress me out and bore all of you to death, so let's just say it was really icky and leave it at that. I would love to be able to blame all that horribleness on work and absolve myself of any responsibility in the matter, but if I'm really honest with myself I have to admit that I'm part of the problem. More specifically, Writer M e is part of the problem.

You see -- and those of you who are writers will get this right away -- I think about things. A lot. When somebody says something, I wonder why they said it. When somebody does something, I wonder why they did it. If it stopped there, you probably wouldn't be reading this, however, I have a problem. I think about things. A lot.

A LOT.

I don't just think about things, I ruminate. I think about what happened, and then I torture myself by extrapolating on it. What if I had said this in response? Or what about that? How does so-and-so feel about my reaction to the situation? Are they mad? How mad are they? What might they do? Who might they be telling? What would I do if they told so-and-so? (Let's think about that for a while.) And, oh my God, if they did that, would it mean they think this or that?

You get the drift, my friends, and oh yeah, it's sick. I'm sick. I can't turn it off. It runs all the time. It runs when I'm in the shower. When I'm eating. When I'm at work. When I'm in the car. When I'm in yoga. When I'm at church. When I'm in the can.

It -- is -- incessant.

I suppose, if I sit back and look at all this objectively, I could put on the glass half-full spin and say this sickness of mine is really a good thing. A strength. I, Shawn Enderlin, have an overactive imagination and that overactive imagination is going to lead me to great places. I'm going to write great stories and I'm going to do great things, and some day, by the Grace of God, I'm going to be able to quit my day frakking job and spend all of my time doing what I love, writing.

Or maybe not.

Meh.

All I know, is that this overactive imagination of mine means one thing: I am, despite my best intentions, my own worst enemy.