I was just going through my old writing files the other day, and paused to flip through the contents of my "Publishers" file. Like many other would-be pros, I have my share of "Dear Contributor ... we regret that this manuscript does not suit our present needs" letters. But I also have a rare gem -- a detailed report on my manuscript from a first reader at a major fantasy publisher.
A first reader, if I understand the concept correctly, is a junior editor or employee at a publishing house assigned to read through a manuscript and write up a summary and comments to help the senior editors make up their minds about whether to buy the book or not.
It started with a detailed summary of my book's plot and characters, and then:
This manuscript was, I'm surprised to say, very entertaining. The characters are all very detailed and real, and the world of the fairies in the oak that the author creates is fascinating. The mystery and suspense aspects of the story were also quite effective. R.J. Anderson can definitely write. There were a few problems with motivations [spoilery example snipped]. I didn't even mind so much though, because the story definitely did keep me reading. The major problem I have with it though, is that the first three or four chapters give no indication of the dark and serious plot that is to follow, and make the story seem like juvenile fiction. In addition, these chapters are not particularly gripping or interesting, but mostly exist only to set up background. So while I enjoyed the story quite a lot on the whole, I was forced to read beyond the first four chapters, whereas I think most adult readers would have put it down much sooner. Because of this, I think I would have to pass on this manuscript. But I do feel strongly that with some restructuring to make the story more adult fantasy from the beginning, this could be quite good.
As I was reading this over the other day, it struck me how stupid I was not to take this for what it really is -- an extremely positive sign that Knife is a saleable manuscript, including specific, helpful, constructive advice on how to make the novel even more effective. I did take the first reader's comments to heart so far as to try and revise the opening chapters, as well as explaining the motivation in the latter passage to which he'd objected. But since then I've really done very little to try and get the book published. I approached one agent with it (she said the mss. was intriguing but she was too busy to take on any new clients), and entered it in one competition, the Warner Aspect First Novel contest (Tim Powers turned it down). But even that was way back in 1998-99. Since then, though -- nothing.
Why is it so hard for me to work up the motivation to print the thing out, put it in a box, and mail it? Why, when I spent hour after hour writing the thing and dreaming about how wonderful it would be to see it published, do I find myself getting all parsimonious about how much toner it would take to print it and how much it would cost to make a photocopy and pay the requisite postage? Why, when I have let this thing gather dust on my hard drive for the past five years, is my mind still grumbling about how unfair it is that simultaneous submissions are discouraged when it takes anywhere from nine months to two years before a publisher returns an unwanted manuscript? Sheesh, if I'd just kept turning the book around and sending it out, I could have run it through seven or eight publishers by now, and one of them might even have bought it.
In life and creativity, I am an optimist. In marketing and self-promotion, I am a fatalist. "Why bother? Who's going to want an 85,000 word mystery / suspense / fantasy / romance novel with a cast that's 98% female anyway?"
Nevertheless, the book's been sidling closer and closer to the forefront of my mind lately. When I was mulling over what art project to tackle next, I decided what I most felt like doing was an illustration for Knife. And today I found myself writing a new scene for the Prologue: the very first scene in the novel, in fact. And although I ended up throwing out about half of what I'd written, I was pleased with the end result. It gives a much better idea of what the reader can expect from the rest of the book.
Cold -- so very cold. The wind tore her hair free of its braid, whipping it into a wild, ice-coated tangle about her face. Blindly she stumbled away from the Tree, eyes closed and hands outstretched, until she could no longer even guess in which direction home and safety lay; then she sat down in the sleet-crusted snow, her thin cloak huddled about her, and sobbed until her tears froze.
As languor slowly claimed her, the chill in her limbs melting into heavy warmth, she lay down upon the frozen ground and shut her eyes. Faint, flickering images began to paint themselves behind her closed lids, and for the first time she did not resist, simply opened her mind and let them come.
Two women faced each other in magical combat, light coruscating around them. A huge crow circled overhead, cawing raucously. And somewhere, on a darkened road, a young man lay bleeding in a wreckage of glass and twisted steel.
Before, she had seen only glimpses of her own past, flashes of emotion and memory; but now, in the final moments of her life, all she had lost came back to her, and the Sight opened within her like a third eye. With the last of her strength she took hold of its power, wrested it under her control, and forced it to yield up the future...
White hair and black eyes, a blade of steel gleaming in the light. Anger, fear, unfocused yearning. The same young man, strapped to a white bed with tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. A still black pond surrounded by trees. Mouths meeting in the darkness, the white-haired girl running away... Faster and faster the images came, chasing each other across her mind, until she had no more energy left to follow them and the blackness began to seep in.
Feebly she spread her hand across her belly, reaching out to the growing spark that was within her and yet no part of her, willing it to listen, to hear.
"Remember," she whispered, as the last of her own light faded. "Remember."
The problem is, though, I ended up reading forward a few chapters and thinking, "You know, if I were writing this book today... a lot of things would be different." Since I first wrote the novel in 1993-94, my style's changed, my approach to character, my perspective on life, even. Part of me doesn't want to try selling the novel until I've rewritten it in my new, more mature style. And yet I know that's just my inner perfectionist/procrastinator speaking: it's a perfectly readable book as it is. Or at least, some people think it is. Whether a publisher will think so... that's another matter. But I won't know that until I give some more publishers, or agents, a chance.
Sigh. How can something so simple be so hard? I can't even blame it on fear of rejection. It's more like... inertia.
Anyway, if anybody wants to read the rest of that chapter, you can find it
here. Oh, what the heck, have the first four chapters and tell me if you think they're still too juvenile-sounding or not interesting enough:
Knife:
Prologue --
Chapter One --
Chapter Two --
Chapter Three --
Chapter Four Comments and criticisms gratefully received.