Getting it right!
Writing my first novel has been, and continues to be–a challenge. About four years ago, and after walking away from a four decade sort-of career as a paintress due to my eyesight not being as sharp as it once was plus a silly accident which hurt my drawing hand. I felt great loss, after all, this being an artist, a paintress, was such an intricate aspect of my identity. Here I was in my sixties, suddenly without a creative outlet. I should have been depressed, but I had just had a memoir published, and this got me thinking that I had another outlet for my creativity. I was simply moving on to a new medium to express myself.
So here I was, the author of a memoir, with no real education in literature, imperfect in the two languages in which I was raised. Yet, now that my attention focused on writing, I just knew it was the medium for me. The more I played with thee notion of writing a fiction, the more I knew I could expand on what I was painting about for the past twenty years. Instead of drawings and paintings depicting queer women, I could dive deeper into those same identities, celebrating them through writing. Of course, I was painfully aware of my lack of technique when it came to the craft of writing. This had never been my chosen means of expression, even if I did write down thoughts, hopes and fears over the years.
Two years ago, I decided to dive in. I have long enjoyed reading crime thrillers, in fact, thrillers of every kind. The thought of writing a thriller, one that included those elements dear to me, such as queer people, a trans heroine, standing up to bigotry, especially transphobia, homophobia and misogyny appealed to me. The next question was, could I write a novel? I mean, hell, those could be anywhere from seventy-thousand to well over a hundred thousand words. It wasn’t the word count that worried me, it was being able to tell a story that held up to scrutiny. All I had to go with was my drive. Drive, impetus, pure, unadulterated inspiration. Would it be enough?
I didn’t ask if I could do it, I just went for broke. I was under no illusion that this would be an easy undertaking, or that I would all of a sudden develop masterful writing skills. I knew I would have an uphill climb. The first action I undertook, was to start dreaming up a story I though needed telling, one I’d love to read. I sat down, and pen to paper, wrote down the basic elements. I wanted the main character to be a queer, trans woman. This was key. I also wanted to populate the novel with other LGBTQ+ people, and come up with antagonists. I think the most difficult, though once imagined, the easiest character I dreamed up, was the killer.
I jotted down my ideas, crossed some out, re-wrote and slowly the story began emerging, I was on my way. I pushed through, not worried about how horrible this first draft would be, all that mattered was that I get to the end of the story. A few months later, it was done. Only it wasn’t, this was but the beginning. Still, I was so very lucky to have friends willing to read some of what I wrote, their comments and suggestions got me further ahead and I picked up a bit more knowledge. A friendly author gave me a hand up, and I will forever be grateful to her. Following this, the great book buying spree came about, I was ordering books, on writing thrillers, character expression, expositional prose, thesauruses, books on body language, on writing, show don’t tell, and lets not omit signing up to Masterclasses, and becoming a member of Sister in Crime and other writing groups. I imbued myself with literature.
Slowly, very slowly, my writing improved, not in great strides, rather in small steps, but advancing none-the-less. I was glad and proud of myself. After a few more drafts of this first novel, I figured it was done, and that it was a great read. I had received critiques from other writers, beta readers and spent hours upon hours fixing grammar. So, I did the next thing, I learned how to write query letters and synopsis, then sent them to potential agents, certain I had the next best-seller in hand. I now have an impressive stack of rejection letters, some of them standard responses of thank you but not interested, and a few that gave me hope . I elected to go with hope. But, it would necessitate going beyond my abilities, I needed to sort of help only an editor could provide.
Today, I await news from the editor I hired to go over my manuscript. I admit to being nervous, but also excited to read their notes and suggestions to help me transform my debut novel into something more polished and ultimately, professional. Art, is for me, all about how well the artist expresses their thoughts through their creations. The more finely tuned, the better it is to understand. All through this, one individual has been steadfast in their support, even when I rambled on about the novel. I know how focused I can become, and no one should endure this , so my dear, dear friend Tara, to you I say, thank you because if not for your patience with me, I’d be taking to the wall, or worst, giving up.
I’m getting closer to getting this novel done. I’m getting it done right, for me.
Joelle
