One Reader

A Veil Sundered Behind the Scenes Editing Publishing. Motivation Readers Reflection Self-Doubt The Road Between Us Writing Journey

This has been a strange month. Actually, that's putting it mildly. At the beginning of July, The Road Between Us was still this enormous thing I've been working on for years. The rough draft was finished, I'm editing it, I'm endlessly finding things I want to change, and I'm still asking myself the same question I've been asking since I first started trying to write seriously. Is any of this actually any good? Then someone tells me they'd be interested in reading it. There isn't anything dramatic about the conversation. They don't work for a publisher. They're not an agent. Nobody is offering me a contract or telling me I've written the next great American novel. They're simply interested in the story and want to read it. So the next evening, at around 7:00 p.m., I decide, What the hell, and send them the first twenty-three chapters.

Pressing Send

Anyone who has ever handed something they've written to another human being probably knows what happens after you press Send. You tell yourself you're not going to worry about it. You're a grown adult. You've asked for an opinion, and whatever comes back, you'll deal with it. That's complete bullshit, of course. Almost immediately, I'm wondering whether they've opened it. Then I'm wondering how far they've got. Have they stopped? Are they bored? Are they still reading because they feel obligated? Are they trying to think of something polite to say because telling someone the book they've spent years writing is complete crap is an awkward conversation? I have some previous experience with that last one. The original version of this story goes back to 2014. I showed it to someone and was told it was crap, so I stopped writing it. Later, I tried again with Chronicles of Sanctuary, wrote twenty-three chapters of Before I Sleep, showed that to someone, and was told pretty much the same thing. I stopped that too. Those things happened years ago, but apparently your brain keeps certain comments carefully filed away for future use. Mine certainly does.

Four Hours Later

I went to bed, thinking that they'd maybe get in touch in a week or two. At best. Made coffee, logged into my computer and checkec my email and there it was, timestamped at around 11:00 p.m., that night: They can't put it down. They love it. Then I actually look at the time again. I sent them twenty-three chapters last night at 7:00 p.m. They haven't read the first couple of chapters and politely told me it looks interesting. They haven't skimmed through it and given me a few encouraging words. They've spent four hours reading it and couldn't put it down. So I send them the rest of the book. Within a week, they've finished the entire thing, and their reaction is everything I didn't realise I've been waiting twelve years to hear. They love me. They hate me. Then they love me again. They want to throw the book at the wall. They can't put it down. They have to read every word. And I'm sitting here thinking, Holy shit.

That's the Difference

I've had people tell me that my writing is good before. Friends encourage you. Family encourages you. People read a scene and tell you they like it. The problem, when you've spent years doubting your own ability, is that you're remarkably good at finding reasons not to believe them. They're being nice. They know me. They don't want to hurt my feelings. Maybe they don't normally read this kind of thing. Maybe they're just trying to encourage me. You can rationalise almost any compliment away if you work hard enough at it, and believe me, I've had plenty of practice. But this feels different. This person isn't simply telling me they like the book. They're reacting to it. They're becoming attached to Dustin and Christine. They're getting angry when things happen to them. They're getting angry with me because I'm the bastard making those things happen. They're staying up reading because they need to know what happens next. You don't read twenty-three chapters in four hours to be polite. You don't want to throw a book at the wall because you're trying to spare the author's feelings. Something in the story has made them care. That is the thing I've never been able to answer for myself. I've spent years wondering whether anybody other than me would care about these people. Now I know at least one person does.

Something Wakes Up

I don't really know how else to describe what happens next except that something wakes up. The passion comes roaring back. The muse, which has apparently been sitting somewhere with its feet up while I've been dragging myself through edits and questioning every bloody paragraph, suddenly decides we're working again. And I am on fire. For the first time in years, I'm not looking at The Road Between Us as this endless project that I'm perpetually working on. I'm looking at it as a book. A real book. A book I'm going to publish. Suddenly, finishing the edits isn't some vague future objective. I'm doing it. I'm making decisions. I'm moving things forward instead of endlessly preparing to move them forward. I've hired a publishing company. I've hired an artist. The Road Between Us is now scheduled for release in late September. Book Two, Witch & Warrior, is in draft. Books Three through Ten are back on the table and I'm revisiting the plots, fixing things that no longer fit, strengthening the overall story, and looking at this universe as something I'm actually going to finish rather than something I might spend the rest of my life playing with. That's an extraordinary change to happen in the space of a few weeks.

One Reader

I'm not going to pretend all the doubt suddenly disappears. It doesn't. I'm still perfectly capable of reading something I've written and wondering what the hell I was thinking. I can still spend far too long fixing a sentence, changing it half a dozen times, then eventually putting it back almost exactly the way it started. I'm still me. But there's another voice in my head now. Someone couldn't put it down. That's such a ridiculously simple thing, but I can't explain how much it matters. I started this journey in 2014 and stopped because somebody told me what I'd written was crap. I tried again, and I stopped again for essentially the same reason. I'm not blaming those people for the years in between. I made the choice to stop, and that belongs to me. But their words stayed with me. For twelve years. Now I have some different words to carry around. I couldn't put it down. Five words. One reader. And somehow, this month, that's enough to change everything.