Category: Stuff We Love

Regarding The Book Architecture Method, sometimes the simplest demonstrations are the clearest. In this case, let’s focus on a song that I, personally, think kicked off the 1960s. Well, the good part, anyway…and that is “Subterranean Homesick Blues,” by Bob Dylan.

Now before you go stating that song lyrics aren’t literature, let me just say that October 24th is a national holiday in the Book Architecture offices. That is the date in 2016 when Dylan won the Nobel Prize for Literature. Validation for many of us (despite tweets like Jodi Picoult’s: “I’m happy for Bob Dylan, #ButDoesThisMeanICanWinAGrammy?”) that few Americans have had a greater impact on arts & letters than one Robert Zimmerman from Hibbing, Minnesota.

Glad that’s out of the way. To study a song or poem in the context of longer-form literature, begins with an appreciation that poetry was the first language art. Long before writing existed, in fact, poetry as an oral tradition helped human beings remember their mythologies and their histories — even their laws — because the rhythm and repetition helped early humans commit things to memory.

This rhythm and repetition is at the heart of The Book Architecture Method’s focus on series: the repetition and variation of a narrative element so that the repetition and variation creates meaning. For a song, this repetition is often centered in the chorus. In Subterranean Homesick Blues, there is no chorus, but there is an important clue…

We interrupt the unfolding of this piece to let you know that if you would like to read the lyrics of Dylan’s song, you can find them here. If you would like to listen to the original you can find it: here. If you want to listen to a bluegrass version where the lyrics are even clearer, you can go: here. And if you want to listen to 11 versions of the song in the same playlist compiled by some fanatic, you can go: here.

So, where is the key repetition and what does that series tell us about the theme of this song? Each of the four stanzas has a section that begins, “Look out kid.” The singer is positioning himself as a kind of elder who is giving the listener advice, even if they don’t necessarily want to believe how bad things have gotten. (Timely song alert.) 

What the kid needs to look out for is different in each stanza. “It’s something you did / God knows when / But you’re doing it again,” (if you listen you can almost hear Dylan smiling through these lines). This progresses to “Look out kid / Don’t matter what you did,” just so we’re clear that the paranoia of the burgeoning counter-culture in the mid-1960s doesn’t mean they’re not after you. Then we get, “Look out kid / You’re gonna get hit / By users, cheaters / Six-time losers.” And finally, in the clearest formulation: “Look out kid / They keep it all hid.”

These four repetitions of the Look out kid series point to the theme of the song: Don’t follow leaders. The scenes in this case are the other data points present. On the one hand, as the poet thinks about the government, we get someone with a badge looking for a payoff, the “heat” (slang for police) planting bugs and tapping phones, a DA who has to make a bust in a certain timeframe, plainclothes policemen, and law enforcement capable of training fire hoses on the protestors of the Civil Rights movement.

But on the other side, we have you, kid. You probably know to avoid scandals. You may even strive to keep a clean nose. But even more importantly is that, as the listener, you trust your own perceptions. “You don’t need a weatherman / To know which way the wind blows.” And of course that you watch your parking meters.

In four stanzas of 18 short lines each, less than 325 words, we have a central series which repeats and varies, and points up the pyramid to the theme, and down the pyramid to the scenes, or symbolic manifestations. We have a voice which reaches its audience through the agency of tone, which includes shared referents and values. Is it easier to pull this off in a condensed carousel of largely surrealistic images? Or is it easier to organize and deploy your structural elements over the course of 300 pages? Or is it the same, provided that you work with scene, series and theme to keep like with like, and introduce movement to get your point/s across? 

As we like to say at Book Architecture, “These are the questions.”

• It is impossible to predict what will happen in improvisation; you just put your nervous system on alert for every single thing.
• You sort out your materials in real time, approaching them as naturally as you approach your own breath.
• A concrete thought process and an intuitive process can happen at the same time.
• First the music enters you, then you don’t have to worry about what to play; the music’s telling you what to play.
• When you allow everything to come through you, it will reach a kind of choke point when it has to come out of you. And if you don’t make a sound after that, you never will.
• You find a way to get the best possible sound of your instrument.
• The familiar routines of life are in complete contrast with the risks you take when you improvise; with improvisation, you begin every time with a blank slate.
• The more experience a person has, the simpler they can sound; timing is the key to simplicity.
• You have to take your whole being along with you. Then the soul shines through because things are always new.

Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about the novelist E.L. Doctorow’s quote in the Paris Review Writers at Work (2nd) series. You may have heard it:

“Writing is like driving at night in the fog. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.”

I believe this; I really do. But still I struggle, writing a book on a deadline, when I extrapolate my current word count and it inevitably falls short of what my contract stipulates. I experience anxiety over not being able to see the make-up of each and every chapter clearly from where I sit today. And behind all of that is the concern that, while I like what I have done so far, that is no guarantee that I will continue producing at a high level.

Rather than make myself falsely feel better, which will only be a temporary solution, I find myself going back to the quote and asking it questions.

If that is true, then I should implicitly only worry about what my headlights illuminate, right? So, it is okay to write Chapter 8, and then Chapter 4, Chapter 3, the Introduction, and so forth?

And if I do that, can I truly rely on the Book Architecture Method concept of series to help me keep track of what I have written about, what still needs to be seeded, and what needs to be concluded?

And if I stay committed to this approach, is it okay, natural even, when one chapter splits into two, and the 33 ideas I have here go with one grouping, and these 15 ideas go with another? And then I can complete this chapter that uses those 33 ideas as their base, and assume that the one with 15 ideas will grow under the approaching headlights the same way all of the other chapters have grown?

Then my obsession with surety always comes back; it seems the best I can do is alternate belief and doubt. I re-read the quote and ask: What if we’re on the wrong road, though? I spread the paper map out on my knee while I am driving, which if you didn’t come of age during the era of paper maps, is not only dangerous, but you end up missing the clues of where the road winds and dips ahead. Are you sure these high beams are on?

There seem to be two options: self-torture or faith. 

If I choose self-torture, the activities seem pretty clear. I will measure and stress over quantity and pace. I will grasp for ideas whose time has not yet come. I will try to get some unsuspecting beta reader to make me feel better about my progress and eventual destination, etc.

If I choose faith, there doesn’t seem to be much more to it than this: Sink into the work. Do I know what I’m working on Tuesday? Do I have a process to capture what announces itself then over the horizon so I know what I’m working on Wednesday? If so, I have everything I need.

Maybe this is why the novelist Ernest Hemingway praised incremental progress:

“The best way is always to stop when you are going good and when you know what will happen next. If you do that every day when you are writing a novel you will never be stuck. That is the most valuable thing I can tell you so try to remember it.”

Meaning, if you can see this swath of highway, you’re good. And what’s more, once you get a glimpse of the next stretch, you should save it for tomorrow as a way of avoiding writer’s block.

Some days, it all makes sense. One those days I might remember another quote, this one from Japanese Zen Master Shunryu Suzuki:

“Your way is to kill two birds with one stone. Our way is just to kill one bird with one stone.”

There are three ways that you can learn about writing. You can go to school for it, which is actually a great way. Some people take reverse pride by boasting that they didn’t take that path, but you can learn a lot in school, believe it or not. Next up, you can read voraciously. That’s an incredible way to learn about writing, especially if you are conscious while doing so, thinking things like: That works. Why does that work? That doesn’t work. Why? And finally, the third way is to be edited, especially if you are wholly open to that experience. 

Recently, I hired Jessica Strawser to not only review the query letter and synopsis, but also the first 50 pages of my novel–and what an eye opening experience that was. Below, we talk about her career path to date and how her many experiences have contributed to her belief in–and her ability to wield–the power of editing. 

SH: Recently, I availed myself of your services to review the query letter and the synopsis for my novel as well as the opening pages — your “gut check” package. And it was, exactly that: a gut check. How did you come up with that name? Do you often see people whose work is not where they think it is (hence needing a gut check)?

JS: I named the package for the thing I always find myself wanting as a writer—when you’re ready to start putting your work out there, but you wish you had some reassurance (ideally from an objective, knowledgeable third party) that the work is as ready as you are. Pitching a book involves an entirely different skill set than writing a book, and it’s a shame how many writers will pour years into crafting a beautiful manuscript and then rush through drafting a query letter that doesn’t do it justice. That’s not to say every writer needs a professional query edit—plenty find success on their own—but for those who find it a struggle, or who are getting nothing but form rejections, hiring help can make good sense.

In various roles through my publishing career—from acquiring titles for niche imprints, to representing Writer’s Digest at writing conferences nationwide, to becoming a novelist in my own right—I’ve been in the unique position to review hundreds of submissions, and to understand what boxes they need to check from both sides of the desk. I can also attest that the hesitation over finally hitting “Send” never quite goes away. I really enjoy helping writers strengthen their submission materials and feel more confident about their next steps. The submission process can feel daunting, lonely, and long. In a world where no-response-often-means-no, I think sometimes writers find the “Gut Check” doubly appealing simply because it gives them interaction with a real human being who treats them with respect and makes the prospect of approaching other so-called gatekeepers seem less scary.

SH: How do you think an editor best comes by her abilities? What is the relative role of education, experience and talent? Am I missing anything there?

JS: Early in my career at Writer’s Digest, a woman at a conference raised her hand and asked me, “They say that those who can’t do, teach. Does that mean that those who can’t write, edit?” There was kind of a gasp in the room at the perceived rudeness of the question, but it opened my eyes to how misunderstood the role of editors can be. I think every editor has a different path, and I can’t speak to them all. I went to the top-ranked E.W. Scripps School of Journalism at Ohio University, where I majored in magazine journalism (which is certainly no longer a major, but in the 90s it was one of three tracks: newspaper, magazine, or broadcast). Most of our training was on how to communicate information clearly, effectively, creatively, and ethically. We were taught to write before we were taught to edit. And indeed, much of my editing education has been trial-by-fire, starting with lower-level roles that involved shadowing mentors, watching and learning. I have worked my way up through various roles, all the way to editorial director, having also been a staff writer, freelancer, and even marketing and public relations team member for a short while. It’s been an immersive education, and that includes my own fiction writing. Contrary to the “those who can’t do…” myth, I don’t coach writers on anything I have not achieved myself, many times over.

SH: I’m sure you have had some very positive experiences of being edited yourself, as this was for me. Are you able to take in what others have said so that you have a new understanding and new tools in the toolbox, or do you still always need an editor? Or both? 

JS: Every editor who I’ve worked with has taught me something new about editing. In my days as a staffer for both magazines and book imprints, I could have told you the pet peeves of every single one of my colleagues. I knew the kinds of things they’d mark up or flag as they read, and I’d almost make it a game to beat them to it. When I’d been the one to write the feature article they were red-lining, that involved learning not to get defensive and to open my mind to the possibility that they were right. Editors and writers are on the same team, and at our best, we make each other look good.

As a fiction writer, being edited is far more nuanced, but when I’m doing something that I know isn’t working quite the way I want it to, sometimes a former editor’s words will pop into my mind and serve as a guide. I’m grateful for them all.

SH: In our communications you have always been extremely humble, and I’m sure that also helps keep expectations of your clients manageable. But don’t you also have to go into an editing engagement with full confidence that you can really rock someone’s world? What is the balance there for you?

JS: I never want to overpromise. In fact, sometimes clients will come to me and say, “So-and-so recommended you! She says you’re a wizard!” and I want to temper their expectations. I’m definitely not a wizard, just someone who can lend a new perspective that I hope will help. I’m not the right match for every writer. I always ask to see their materials before I take them on; sometimes the subject matter is outside my wheelhouse, or the query letter is already in great shape and I tell them that I don’t think they need me and wish them luck. Also, the best pitch in the world won’t get you published if the manuscript isn’t strong enough to seal the deal.

Time and money are equally valuable assets to writers, and it bears repeating that plenty of resourceful, savvy writers succeed without ever hiring help at all. There are people out there who will prey on writers with big dreams and take advantage of them, so I’d caution all writers to be wary and discerning about who you entrust to assist you, especially if they’re making bold claims.