So, here’s how it goes:

You’re a writer and you’ve got an idea for a story. It’s going to be a goddamn fantastic story, and you are going to write the ever loving shit out of it. You pull up that blank word document (ignoring that rather sizeable trill of fear at the fact that it’s blank and you are starting something new and oh my god, what if it’s terrible?) and get to work.

Sometimes the words come easy. There are days when you write and write and write almost in a trance, a state of near ecstasy, absolutely convinced that every single word you’ve written is absolute gold.

Yes, you think to yourself greedily.  Yes, I am so good at everything I do, and people will love me and this story and this will change the face of literature forever.

Then there are days when you sit down to start writing, feeling the like today is going to be just like the day before. You open up that word document to start where you left off…and nothing happens. Literally nothing. You can’t think of a single word to write. Oh, sure, you try. You maybe type an I or A or TOHIGOPIDSHOPIGH when your head hits the keyboard, but nothing happens. And it’s the worst.

Or so you think.

Because then there are those other days. Those other, terrible, horrible days when you open up that word document, reading back over what you’ve written the day before and realize that everything you’ve written is absolute horseshit. That allegory you thought so brilliant yesterday? Yeah, it reads at a third grade level. Your hero’s motivations? Unclear and murky at best. And oh yeah, the hero is actually an asshole with absolutely no redeeming qualities, and the love interest is vapid and uninteresting, and this isn’t literature. This is crap and you should probably have never started writing this book at all, because yeah, no one will want to read this. And even if they do, they’ll eviscerate you for writing it, because hey! It’s trite and pedantic and boring and—

That’s pretty much when you slam your laptop closed, scream really loud, and sit back in your chair, spending the three hours ruminating that, well, you just quite your job so you could write full time, and you’re not actually doing any writing currently, and what you did write won’t sell, meaning you won’t get paid, you’ll lose your house, and become homeless and probably get addicted to meth and will offer up handjobs like they were tic tacs just to be able to get enough money to get that next hit of crystal so you can float away, not caring that your teeth are falling out or your face is getting zombified, because hey, at least you didn’t continue writing that stupid fucking story that was the worst thing ever written and—

 

 

You laugh at yourself that next day for being a drama queen. You’re looking at what you’ve written so far, and maybe it’s not literature, per se, but it ain’t half bad, if you do say so yourself. Maybe if you just keep on trucking, you won’t be a homeless drug addict giving handjobs for meth. Besides, you tell yourself. You’d rather get carpal tunnel from writing too much, and not from handy-j’s for drugs.

So you keep on trucking.

And then, maybe a couple of months down the road, maybe as much as six months, you write two of the most magical words in the history of any language anywhere:

THE END.

You literally feel like rainbows are shooting out your asshole, you’re so happy. You sit back in your chair, a well-deserved sense of accomplishment settling over you.

“I’m so good at everything I do,” you tell your cat, who then proceeds to vomit on your hardwood floors.

“Exactly,” you say in reply, thinking maybe you should get out a little more, but pushing that thought away.

You tell yourself to take a little break, but that turns out to be bullshit, because you have to do the goddamn rewrite, going back through the entire story to make sure that it actually makes sense.

It does, you tell yourself one day.

It absolutely doesn’t, you tell yourself the next day as you glare daggers at the computer screen.

You send it in to your publisher, telling yourself you never want to see the goddamn story ever again.

A few days later, your publisher says, Yes, we want to publish your story!

There goes those asshole rainbows again.

Months pass.

Your editor says she’s starting to work on the book.

You barely even remember what it’s about, but you figure it’s pretty much genius.

You tell her as much.

She texts you back a few days later: Your verb tenses are killing me.

You roll your eyes. You don’t have time for verb tenses. You are a storyteller. You tell stories. The editor edits. You politely respond with a specific picture:

 

 

Then the weird thing happens. A few weeks later, you get the book back for edits and you’re nervous. What happens if you open up the edits and the story is crap? Like, your editor is obviously trying very hard to be polite, but hidden in the Okay, this paragraph can probably be cut as it doesn’t really add anything you haven’t already said, you hear what she’s really saying: YOU ARE TERRIBLE AND YOUR FACE IS STUPID AND I DON’T EVEN KNOW HOW THIS GOT ACCEPTED FOR PUBLICATION.

You work up the courage and open up the edits.

Your editor is snarky.

You breathe a sigh of relief and snark right back.

Your editor is the greatest person who ever lived.

Your editor is an asshole who you hate and will never work with again because they want you to cut prose that is sublime.

You forgive your editor three paragraphs later when they highlight something and writes a comment that says: This is good.

You’re damn fucking right it’s good, you think somewhat savagely.

You go back and cut the paragraph they suggested. You can be magnanimous, after all.

The book goes through three full rounds of edits.

Then a clean up edit.

Then the galley edit.

By this time, you have the story memorized.

And you hate everything about it.

I need this back in two days, the editing department says as they want you to apparently read through  150,000 words in two days to make sure there are ZERO MISTAKES.

You consider doing a rewrite that kills all the characters off because you despise them.

You don’t have time.

You stay up late looking through the final galley.

You finish, and say, “Fuck you and your mothers.”

Then.

THEN.

Four weeks later, maybe six or eight, the book comes out.

You are an asshole, so naturally, you tease your readers for those weeks.

You are going to cry, you tell them.

I will laugh at you, you tell them.

Please love me, you think. Please buy my book which will allow me to stay in my house and not have to give homeless person handy-j’s for meth. I like my teeth and my non-zombie face.

And then it’s the best day ever: RELEASE DAY.

God, release days are the best day ever. You wake up, an instant smile on your face. You probably sing a little song as you jump out of bed: OOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHH, it’s my released day! For a book that’s a little gay! Hip hop hurray!

You sit down at your computer, and open it up.

The first thing that happens, of course, are those people, those hardcore people who stayed up late and read your book all night. You don’t necessarily understand those people, but you love them almost more than anything.

 All day, you sit on your ass, answering questions, thank people for reading the books, ignoring the pile of other work you have to do. You see people liking your book, loving your book, hating your book, and you know what?

 It’s okay.

By the end of the day, the release day high has lessened, and even though you haven’t really done anything, you’re exhausted.

So you go to bed, that same smile on your face.

The next day, you wake up.

It’s only Tuesday.

But maybe while you were trying to go to sleep, you got an idea for a story. It might even be a great idea.

So you sit down at your computer.

Open up a blank word document, trying not to quake in fear at the sight of it.

And then you do it all over again.