manuscript blues

Olen Steinhauer’s pretty much well and done with his upcoming novel, 36 YALTA BOULEVARD, but that doesn’t mean he’s plenty worried about the fourth book, which he’s just submitted to his publishers:

It’s quite a departure from the style and pace of the other books,

which evokes two feelings: a sense of pleasure at seeing myself branch

out, and fear. I’m just waiting for my publisher to send back a brief

note, saying, “Eh? What’s this? Send us the real book, okay?”

And

in a way, I find myself, or at least a malicious part of me, asking the

same question. It’s what happens once you’ve put out a few books, and

while there’s no wide public for my books, the ones who like them are

coming to know what to expect in one way or another. A single (often

brooding) main character, with the narrative sticking unerringly to his

point of view, and a slow movement into chaos. The chaos remains in

this, and is in fact racheted up quite a bit, but there are three main

characters, each of whom speak differently, creating a whole tale often

by indirection, so that only the reader can piece the whole thing

together.

Writing it here, though, I remember that it actually works pretty well. So what am I worried about?

My career.

It’s a risk, no question, especially when fans continue to grumble about writers who either ditch series altogether (like Dan Simmons and his RIP to  Joe Kurtz) or change directions. Sometimes it’s beyond their control, as when a publisher drops them for lack of sales, but much of the time it’s creative growth. But with this new book of Olen’s, it wouldn’t surprise me at all if it turned out to be the most accessible of his books, the one that reaches out to the widest audience possible. Funny how these things work….

Then there’s Sandra Scoppettone, a veteran of 20 novels, who is, well, having her ass kicked by her current manuscript, the sequel to THIS DAME FOR HIRE (Ballantine, June)

I think I’m in big trouble. This novel is a mess. I’m on page 142

and not only don’t I know what’s going on, I can’t imagine writing at

least another 250 pages of this.

Nothing makes sense.  I’ve written myself into so many corners I can’t see how to ever write out of them.

If

it wasn’t so depressing, and if I didn’t have a deadline, I think I’d

junk this novel and start again. I honestly don’t know what I’m going

to do. I should be working right now but instead I’m doing this.

I

feel I’ve been fooling myself, thinking it would work itself out. I

don’t see how it can. I’ve never been in quite this position so early

in a book.

She’s trying to mix things up by applying her own writing advice to others to herself and letting a trusted friend see the manuscript, but this post amazed me because it goes to show that no matter how many times someone’s written a novel, it really never gets easier. But Scoppettone, the veteran that she is, will no doubt climb out and produce a good book in the end.