I completed the first round of edits (or as my publisher called them, somewhat ominously, "pre-edits") and sent them back in. Most of them were minor corrections, typos, or slight style adjustments. One small set was a rather embarrassing pronoun/name correction to a character I had overhauled significantly from an earlier draft. 

Rarely, though, I disagreed with an edit. Sometimes, it was because I felt removal of a phrase would make something less clear, and sometimes I felt adding a sentence made a character seem too verbose. It was funny going back after about a year to find I could still hear my characters quite clearly--clearly enough to shake my head at an editorial change that was merely a word or two. "That isn't what she/he sounds like," I muttered to myself as I rejected the advice.

Two interesting comments from the publisher caught my eye. The first was that these edits were "pre-edits" and I'd be working with their editorial staff on more substantive changes. What he alluded to has the potential to be a little bit of a struggle, depending on how deeply he wants to make changes. We'll see how that goes, and I'll keep you up to date on the process here.

The second comment, however, was at once thrilling and frightening. It was a very casual comment (though I suspect he tossed it in casually knowing full well the effect it would have on me) referring to still-unexplained plot points in this sequel. He mentioned that book three will have to answer some questions.

Book three? 

There's no such book. I never even hinted at such a thing in my pitch, and, once again, I felt like this story is OVER. Hell, I even have an EPILOGUE this time, as if to say, once and for all, "done. Finito. Full stop."

So now, of course, I'm already thinking about what the hell Book Three would even be about. 

Strangely enough, a title did occur to me: Beltrunner: Legacy. That's got a nice ring to it...

​Be seeing you!

Also Called: "Editing And Revising a Book You Haven't Looked at in a Year or More"

The good news? The publisher I send the manuscript to responded positively, saying he "loved the story" and sent me some initial edits to examine before it's handed over to his editors. There will, therefore, be some work to do on the novel.

That brings up a question I get asked sometimes: how do you deal with editorial changes suggested to you?

The people at EDGE publishing have been professional with me on this front, which I should add is by no means a guarantee in the field. Their editors have worked with me to strengthen whatever manuscripts I've sent their way, and in both cases so far (Beltrunner and Silent Manifest) I've felt their suggestions ultimately led to better works.

Still, that doesn't mean we always agree on changes. Other than obvious errors or typographical mistakes (we try to keep that down to zero, but somehow a few manage to creep in) the edits mostly come down to style and clarity issues. I have a tendency to be a bit long-winded (yes, it's true, despite the brevity and clarity of this and other blog posts. (I also can sometimes get trapped in too many asides (sometimes even writing asides to asides (like this one) or using punctuation overmuch--I love the dash)) so efforts to bring me back to more direct narration are helpful.

I think I tend to be accepting and open to improvement, though I will sometimes stand on a point of style that I feel matters. I don't think I am a particularly flashy or stylish writer--I don't seem to have the knack for it--but when I do manage to put words together in an impressive manner I like to hang on to them.

So far, the rewrites have not been plot- or character-based, but I suppose that may change when the editorial group gets their hands on the manuscript.

Lastly, for any of my students who may be reading--you may have groaned at writing draft after draft to respond to my comments about your essays. Well, you can bask in the fiery glow of vengeance now as you realize I, too, have to revise my writing based on comments I received. Cold comfort, perhaps, but hey, it's what I have to offer.

​Be seeing you!

Writers have been asked since time immemorial, "where do you get your ideas?" It's at once a simple and a complex question to answer.

The simple answers include, "from my life" or "I get them by thinking of them," or, in the case of that brilliant pioneer Harlan Ellison, "Schenectady" (he later elaborated that he's part of an "idea club" where he gets a fresh idea sent to him every week). 

The more complex answers range from "my life" to "other people's lives" to "daydreams" or "nightmares" or all manner of other responses. 

I'll tell you my answer as far as I can see it. Where do I get my ideas?

I don't know.

Obviously, I get them from my mind, but that seems like a dodge. When I say I don't know, that's not entirely true: there are processes writers engage in to help them unlock or cultivate ideas, and of course the lives we lead and the intersections of other lives lived all around us generate ideas, but those answers seem unsatisfying as well. If the question is asked sincerely--as opposed to it being a rhetorical question whose true meaning is "You sure seem to be able to think of ideas that most people can't,"--I think it deserves as best an answer as I can provide.

For me (and I will not presume to speak for anyone else) ideas can come from a few places. Character ideas usually come when I ask myself, "whose story is this--what does this person want and why haven't they got it?" Plot ideas come sometimes from "what if this happened?" (and in science-fiction, the "THIS" can be quite outlandish). I don't often do pure setting/milieu stories, but I suppose they would be "what if the world were like this?" 

So. If you're a newly-hatched writer and you're trying to think of THE BIG IDEA, I'd suggest asking those questions. "Whose story is this?" "What does she want, and why doesn't she have it?" "What if this happened?"

It's a sea-captain's story. He wants to be whole again. He's been hurt physically and psychically: what if in his search for wholeness he devolved into unreasoning vengeance?

It's a young son's story. He wants his family back--his father not to be dead, his mother not to have married his uncle, and his girlfriend to not betray him. He'll never have those things, because once lost, they can't be regained. What if he exits this world but takes the guilty with him?

It's a knight's story. He wants the world to be as romantic as the books he's read. What if he convinced himself that the world was like a storybook? What trouble would he cause for himself and his companion(s) if he refused to accept the world as it was and instead lived the life of a romantic, chivalrous knight despite being terrible at it?

I'm sure you recognize those stories. I'm by no means saying it's easy--there is a lot more to Moby-Dick, Hamlet, and Don Quixote than man-vs-fish, man-vs-family, and man-vs-reality there. But at least it's a start!

Be seeing you!

I'd never planned on making Beltrunner a series. Hell, as far as I was concerned, the story had a beginning, a middle, and an end, and when I closed the book on Collier and Sancho and Fletcher and the rest of them, I thought their collective story was done.

When Beltrunner came out an started getting reviews on Amazon and Goodreads and a few other places, a curious pattern started to develop: some (not many, but not an insignificant number, either) mentioned wanting to read the "next book," saying they were "curious how it was all going to end." 

Huh.

That was the spark that made me think gee whiz maybe there's more to say about my stubborn, heroic, and often foolish asteroid belt miner and his faithful but malfunctioning computer. I hadn't really thought of it at the time, but these two broken people (one broken in the psychological sense, the other actually broken) were perfect for one another. Their relationship had more in it, and certainly the main plot (and the MacGuffin I'd invented*) hadn't truly been resolved. 

But what really got me thinking hard was when I started to hear Collier and Sancho again. They were talking in some other room of my mind--not to me, but to one another, and though I couldn't make out what they were saying they were clearly not done talking. That faint murmur grew, and the itch to go back to them returned.

Plus, I think I knew deep down that the way I ended Beltrunner and what had become of the MacGuffin was unsatisfactory. There's a razor-thin line between saying too much (giving away too many answers to mysteries better left unsolved--something I maintain was the downfall of what would become the first in the Star Wars movies, the Phantom Menace: too many questions from the iconic 1977 movie were answered, and those answers were somewhat banal. A similar fate threatened to befall Clarke's sequel to 2001, a book called 2010) and saying too little (giving the audience the impression that you, writer, weren't really sincere in your own plot machinations, and that ultimately they were just contrivances to create artificial wonder not grounded in anything. The television show Lost fits rather neatly into this category, as do many other shows that have a kind of "shallow depth.") 

Anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah.

I think I came to realize that there was more to say with the plot, with my buddy main characters, and even with the setting itself. Collier's character arc was not yet done, but had in fact only begin to bend. Sancho, though one of my favorite creations, hadn't really come into his own as much as I would have liked (what happens to him in the latter part of Beltrunner was, I realize, a beginning rather than an end).

A lot of high-sounding prose, yes? Like I am some kind of classical composer who yet has his Magnum Opus to write? Calm down, O'Brien. It's a sci-fi yarn about a man and his computer chasing rocks. 

What finally did it for me, despite all this literary criticism, was that Collier and Sancho were just plain fun. I loved writing them, or listening to them, and I missed them. 

All I needed was a story. I'll talk about how that came to be later.

​Be seeing you!