Hallie: What We're Writing Welcome to My Mess

HALLIE EPHRON: Welcome to our Jungle Reds What We're Writing week. I call it Welcome to My Mess because I've hit the  end of "Act One," a major turning point. With every manuscript, this is where I hit the wall. 

And here I am again. Spinning my wheels.

I can happily write along for about 80 pages, flying by the seat of my pants. Then whammo. Full stop. I have some idea what's going to happen at the end of the book (or I think I do). But the next page is a complete enigma.

At this point in writing, I usually change the book's title. I change character names. Amy became Lindsay. Nan became Quinn. I hit a speedbump when I changed Erin to Becca. Which turned "cluttering" into "cluttbeccag." Which sounds like a disease. 

I paint in more setting. Oops, forgot about weather, and what are these characters wearing? Print out the manuscript. Revise what I have. Again.

Then I go off and organize my T-shirts. Which, for this book, I can actually call research.

If all of this sounds to you like "anything but write the next page," then you're right. It's only because I've been stuck here before—ten times!—that I have complete faith that I will get unstuck. 

Because while I'm doing all this housekeeping (aka nitpicking), I'm trying to envision what's going on in the book from each of the main character's perspective. Who's got it right. Who's got it wrong. Who's lying. And what's really going on here. To that end I outline what I wrote and what might come next.

Eventually the pieces will fall into place. I'll be surprised. Hopefully readers will be surprised. And I'll forget all about how hard it was to figure out what came after the end of Act One.

So you all will be the first to read it: the opening two paragraphs of Careful What You Wish For (previously titled Folding Frank.) This will probably be pretty close to what I end up with. Because I've revised it about 400 times.

Lindsay wasn’t sure that her sock drawer sparked joy. Once a jumbled pile, those pairs of socks that now stood at attention, folded and sorted by color, were pleasant enough to behold. She’d tried to follow the decluttering guru’s mantra, keeping only those socks that “spoke to her heart.” 

With socks, that had been a tall order. Maybe on a raw wet day, a pair of fuzzy socks could bring warmth and comfort. Not so much on a muggy Saturday morning in early August as she stood in her sunlit bedroom in shorts, a tank top, and flip-flops. Instead, the message her sock drawer whispered to her heart was how privileged she was. Because who on earth needed that many pairs of socks?

HALLIE: I leave you with these wise words:

And if you have any tips on getting unstuck, let's hear 'em.

The Book That Didn’t Want to be Written, a guest blog bt Reba White Williams

 JULIA SPENCER-FLEMING: "Write what you know" is a truism many authors follow, but few of them are as knowledgeable about their subjects as Reba White Williams. When she wrote Restrike, the first in a series about gallery owner Dinah Greene and her art-magazine-editor cousin, Coleman, Reba didn't just take a stroll through the Met and download a copy of ARTnews.  She tackled her art-world mysteries after a lifetime of collecting American prints, writing scholarly articles and earning a PhD. in Art History. (She also has an MBA and a masters in fiction writing. Talk about overachieving!)

Her first book did well, she got picked up by a larger publisher, and her second book, Fatal Impressions, came out less than a month ago to excellent reviews. The picture of contentment, right? Well...it turns out even the most well-prepared author isn't immune from struggling with The Book That Will Not Be Written...

          I enjoyed writing my first two novels. The words flowed swiftly and easily like butter melting on a hot plate. I told my friends how easy it was to write. How much I enjoyed the experience. That I laughed out loud at the antics of my characters and couldn’t imagine having any problems writing. I was ever so smug.

I began my third book in January, and within days I knew this book was different.  The words wouldn’t come. The sentences weren’t there. I lost a completed section and had to rewrite it. I was constantly interrupted by trivia. I caught a hideous cold with drippy eyes and nose that led to an infection that led to something worse, and finally, minor surgery. I couldn’t see to read or write and I struggled to get words on paper.  My deadline was April 1. I feared that I couldn't make it. 

          We had a series of electrical blackouts and after the second one the refrigerator went insane.  It began to make horrible noises and we couldn’t turn it off (it was built in).  For two days it screeched at me.  I could hear in every room. I couldn’t escape it.  My friend Susan wrote that she had a vision of me shooting the refrigerator, making headlines all over the country.  I sent it to my editor but accidentally sent an old version and had to send again.  When the book was finally finished, I was exhausted and drained.  I felt that the book and I had been at war.  I wondered if the book tucked on a shelf somewhere was rewriting itself. Is my book an escaped Stephen King novel?

          Have other writers had this experience?  What can I do if the next book challenges me?  A friend suggests hanging garlic near where I am writing to fend off witches.  Any better ideas?

How about you, dear readers? Do you have any superstitions or charms to make your writing go smoothly? And what do you do when the work just won't come? We have three copies of Fatal Impressions to give away to some lucky commentors, so be sure to join in the discussion!

You can find out more on Reba White Williams' remarkable career, and read excerpts of her Coleman and Dinah Greene mysteries on her website. You can friend Reba on Facebook, follow her on Twitter as @RebaWWilliams, and include her in your circle at Google+.