Recently, an agent (not one I’m currently working with) told me that nobody is buying historical fiction… “unless it’s World War II.” As someone who is in the middle of what (she hopes) are the final edits on a novel about the Irish War of Independence, this was pretty much the last thing I wanted to hear.
The agent sounded so definitive—agents are very good at sounding definitive—and for at least a week, I thought I should ditch my historical novel and move onto something else—despite the fact that the agent I AM currently working with likes the book.
I have always believed that writing a novel (or a memoir, for that matter) is an act of faith. You spend years working on a story you hope someone will want to publish, and you count on that faith to put you in front of your computer each day.
For the seven years it took to write A Master Plan for Rescue, I had no agent. The one who’d sold my previous books and I had parted ways, and since this new novel wasn’t like anything I’d written before, I wanted to finish it before I went agent shopping.
Still, for all those seven years, I never once doubted that A Master Plan for Rescue would find a home.
Thinking about this has sent me back to something Shunryu Suzuki, founder of the SF Zen Center, once said.
Our way is to practice one step at a time, one breath at a time with no gaining idea. When there is no gaining idea in what you do, then you do something.
I love the uncomplicated wisdom of this. But I also know that among the things that keep me writing day after day, are all the many gaining ideas I have about whatever I’m working on.
Despite how often they get in the way.
Publishing a book is an emotional roller coaster ride. Most of us spend far too much time thinking about who didn’t review us, and what Best Of list we didn’t end up on, and which literary prizes we didn’t get.
Or maybe that’s just me.
Lately though, I’ve started to wonder if it wouldn’t be better to write with no gaining idea. To think only about the next word, and the next word, and the word after that. Because at least for me, I do my best writing when all I’m thinking about is the writing.
On the other hand, isn’t trying to think only about the writing because you believe it will make you a better writer a gaining idea?
That’s a koan for another day (or another newsletter). For now, I’m going to try to practice writing the way I practice meditation—thinking only about the next breath, and the next, and the one after that, until the bell rings and I can get up from the cushion.
And I’m going to stop listening to agents.
such wisdom in here, including the questioning of the wisdom! I want to entertain readers, and I'm always suspicious that my liking something I've written is risky! But just getting the words out one at a time is a great thing, too...
I think the way to get around the no-gaining idea is just to grow old. The thought becomes, What's important to me here? Writing. And does it matter? Yes, to me. So I go on.