A Cluttered Life. A Sparse Workspace.

The photo of my workspace says a lot: I’m not set up to be a writer. Now, I’ve got my laptop full of stories and the butt imprint in the couch (covered by said laptop in this pic) to prove that I put in the hours, but I don’t have a classic writer’s area. Maybe this is because writing is only one piece of how I spend my day. One piece of my life.

To follow Cynthia’s theme, I really didn’t “set myself up” to be a writer, and only lately am I able to utter, “I’m a writer.” The book deal certainly helped, and once I held an advanced reading copy of FALLING FOR HAMLET it felt even more real. But it still feels new. I think of myself as a great many things before I think “writer”. That said, when I realize that I AM a writer, it gives me a thrill that’s not easily matched by anything else.

For a long time, I was a closeted writer. I filled journals, zoned out and imaged stories, but I never, never wrote them down (which I could kick myself for now), and I certainly didn’t tell anybody about it . . . until I met Amy VanDerwater, who was teaching teachers to teach writing better. After one workshop, I quietly told her that I had started a manuscript, and she announced to the entire teaching staff of my district, “Michelle Ray is writing a novel.” The horror! But with my secret out, I started taking myself a little more seriously.

Now unlike Cynthia, it took another seven years for me to buy my first book on writing, and nearly that for me to show my work to anyone. I wrote a little and I read. Then I wrote a little more. And one day, I decided to show people what I was up to. And they liked it. My friend, Lauren, texted her fury when I killed off a beloved character, and my friend, Nickie, told me I’d ruined her night when she got to that death, too. I couldn’t believe my writing had an effect on people. It was intoxicating.

But at that moment, my life didn’t instantly become that of a writer. For better or for worse, writing is something I do when everything else is finished. I teach, I take care of my kids, I cook, I hang out with my husband, I grade, and on and on. BUT because I love to write, I’ve become efficient and a heck of a multi-tasker. I can help my kids write Valentines while revising a chapter. I can dream up plot twists while on hall duty.

My bedside table (see photo) is the perfect example of this squeeze. It’s full of things that interest me: a book of Shakespeare quotes, a play on Afghanistan, YA novels, grown up novels, report cards, my kids’ projects, and, yes, some books on writing. See? The writing stuff is just one part of the shuffle of my life.

I feel badly about this – like maybe I’m not a real writer if I don’t have shelves of writer books and if I have a day job. But you know what? It’s the truth. So maybe my kid is singing a pop tune as I write this (wish I were kidding), and the school play I’m directing opens in a week so I was too tired to revise tonight. But it’s okay. I am still a writer.

Revising: The Joy and the Hurt of It

Revising is fabulous. Revising is painful. Revising is thrilling. Revising is humbling. Revising is rewarding. Revising is challenging. All of this is true, but nothing is more than this: revising is what makes the work better.

I always knew writers revise and edit. And I knew there were these people in the publishing world called editors (who, in my mind, all looked like Katherine Hepburn for some reason), though I wasn’t quite sure what they did. I thought they sat around with red pens looking for typos. To my extreme relief, and to the benefit of my work, it turns out that editors (at least ones as fantastic as mine, Alvina Ling) are coaches, cheerleaders, story shapers, teachers, and yes, typo finders. Editors wear many hats, but the overall thing they do is make the manuscript better.

Now after all of that glowing praise, let me tell you my honest-to-goodness reaction the first time I saw Alvina’s editorial letter (an explanation of what needs work) and my electronic manuscript full of mark-ups (the modern red pen): I cried. As you read more of my entries, you will likely see that tears are my thing, but to classify them, these were a mix of feeling sorry for myself and abject terror. See, I’m not a precious writer. I do not believe that my words are so great, so untouchable that no one should dare tell me to change them. It’s that I felt sure I would fail. Looking at the hundreds of notes sprinkled through the manuscript, I thought, “If I could have written it better the first time, I would have! I can’t do it! Alvina will be sorry that she wanted to work with me.”

But as they say, “A journey of a thousand miles begins with one step,” so I made changes one at a time. Eventually, I whittled them down until I got to some of the tougher issues, like a character who wasn’t as likeable as I thought (Really? I liked her? But, oh, ah, yes, I see what you mean! She seems kind of cold. Change, change, change.) and gaping holes in the story I hadn’t realized were there.

And then I was done.

Ha.

Rookie mistake. You don’t get it right the first time. And that’s not only okay, it’s expected.

So, we went back and forth, and while some might find this disheartening, I must say, for me (once I felt confident that Alvina wasn’t going to dump me like a washed up Homecoming Queen) it was fantastic. When I compare drafts, I see how much more depth there is to the story after the revisions and I know I could not have done it on my own.

Alvina’s eyes are not the only ones on the drafts. She has a variety of unsung heroes who checked my work along the way, including copyeditors (who caught so darned many boo-boos. Yikes!). Plus I have my friends who read my work, and my agent, Joan, who sees every draft first and who does therapy when I’m stuck or sad or confused about the process.

What has surprised me most in this process is what a communal effort creating a book is. I feel so lucky to be working with people who not only make my writing better, but who make me feel better while they’re doing it.

Looking Back (or why we write)

It was the best of years.

It was the worst of years.

It was the year my first book came out.

It was the year I had multiple ideas rejected.

It was a year when I was told I was brilliant.

It was a year when I was told I was not.

It was a year when I got my first fan email.

It was a year when I planned my first book launch.

It was a year when my friends and students read my work.

And many of them loved it.

It was a year when I made my first video for a publisher.

It was a year when I did my first book signings.

It was a year when I was interviewed in newspapers as a writer.

It was a year when I got a good review in The New York Times.

It was a year I felt confident saying, “I’m a writer.”

On balance, there was more good than bad. There have been bumps and heartache along the way, and I have said more than once, “I’m going to stop writing,” and been told, “No. You’re too good.” So I kept writing. But not because someone flattered me. Because I couldn’t help myself. When I was studying theater in college, I remember people saying, “Only stick with it if there’s nothing else you can do. Only do it if you can’t help yourself.” Those in the know wanted the outsider to know that the life of the artist was that uncertain. That fraught. That harrowing. So I made a decision. There was something else I could do. I became a teacher. But the creative urge was still there, and so I wrote. And I will keep doing that since I can’t help myself. I really can’t. I love telling stories. I love the act of writing them down. Of getting people to see what I see.

And so we live on hope. All people do, but artists face this daily. A writer spends her time hoping an idea will come. Hoping the idea will bloom into something worthy. Hoping the work will be well received. Hoping people will want more.

A new year rolls in, and I’ve stopped to take stock. To ask myself, “Was it all worth it? Is there anything else I’d rather do with my time?” And the answer is yes and no. Yes, it was worth it. More that I could have dreamed despite disappointment. And no, this is how I wish to spend my time. Until the answers change, I will go on writing.

Because this year brought so many good times.

And next year might be better.