Rob found this GIF. I stole it. I think it says it all!
So author Rob Smales and I have been collaborating on a book, and we’ve both been writing about the collaboration process. You might want to read through these posts before continuing on:
Collaboration, Part 1 (Rob)
Collaboration, Part 1 (Stacey)
Collaboration, Part 2 (Rob)
Collaboration, Part 2 (Stacey)
Collaboration, Part 3 (Rob)
We’d figured out how to handle the process, got into our groove, and wrote. We had a blast, started really enjoying playing with our characters, and cracked each other up with every new chapter. But when it was all said and done, was it a book?
More importantly, were we still speaking?
Since we’re editing partners too, Rob and I have a good sense of each other’s schedules. I was able to carve out time to start reading the completed novel first, mostly because I’d asked him to take the lead on a manuscript that had just come in for S & L Editing, while I ran away clutching the pages of our collaboration cackling like a madwoman. I huddled in a corner of my office cave, red pen in hand, and started reading.
The first few chapters I could see where were trying to find our footing—or, more specifically, where Rob was stepping with purpose, while I stuck a toe in the water—and I out-and-out winced at one chapter I’d helmed that brought the pacing to a screeching halt (and was kind of a downer). I shot Rob a message that the chapter would need a rewrite. I sulked for a moment at my inability to get what I’d meant to convey in that scene into words on paper.
Then turned the page and kept going.
The book was funny and clever and hit all the key plot points we’d wanted it to. I found myself making notes like We had her do this here so we could have her do this other thing later—did we remember to do that? Only to find myself crossing off the note a few pages later, because yeah, between the two of us, we’d remembered. As I read, I forgot who wrote which scenes, completely immersed in the story. When I finished, I sent Rob a text:
I know this is going to be hard to believe, because between the two of us we don’t have a shred of self-confidence.
Rob responded with a simple question mark.
The book, I typed. I think . . . . I think this is really good. Like, really good.
A full minute passed before he responded. Really? Then: :)
My biggest worry, throughout the ten to twelve months we took writing and revising this novel, that at some point in the process we’d reach an impasse that would threaten to ruin our friendship. Rob is not only my go-to person when I’m struggling with something I’m writing and need to brainstorm, he’s also the best partner an editor could ask for. We often discuss books we’re reading, authors we admire, and confer about and debate anomalies in grammar we encounter. I didn’t want to lose any of these things over a novel. But there are two traits we share that turned into a successful partnership during this process: neither one of us has much confidence in our own work—which translated into no ego when it came to revision time—and we both really like to make people laugh. Our biggest obstacle, on the other hand, was that lack of confidence: our exchanges of Here’s the latest chapter, it might suck or Next installment headed your way; suspect I’ve reached new levels of suckitude, became almost laughable. (Almost. Seriously, I’m pretty sure we both need professional therapy.) It was the most fun I’ve ever had writing. Probably because we were going through all the normally solitary doubts and struggles together.
When Rob started reading our manuscript to make his own notes, he sent me a text: I think you’re right. This really is good.
Exciting, right? All that work and angst paid off, I sent back. Now when can we sit down to hammer out the outline for the second one?
Collaboration, Part 1 (Rob)
Collaboration, Part 1 (Stacey)
Collaboration, Part 2 (Rob)
Collaboration, Part 2 (Stacey)
Collaboration, Part 3 (Rob)
We’d figured out how to handle the process, got into our groove, and wrote. We had a blast, started really enjoying playing with our characters, and cracked each other up with every new chapter. But when it was all said and done, was it a book?
More importantly, were we still speaking?
Since we’re editing partners too, Rob and I have a good sense of each other’s schedules. I was able to carve out time to start reading the completed novel first, mostly because I’d asked him to take the lead on a manuscript that had just come in for S & L Editing, while I ran away clutching the pages of our collaboration cackling like a madwoman. I huddled in a corner of my office cave, red pen in hand, and started reading.
The first few chapters I could see where were trying to find our footing—or, more specifically, where Rob was stepping with purpose, while I stuck a toe in the water—and I out-and-out winced at one chapter I’d helmed that brought the pacing to a screeching halt (and was kind of a downer). I shot Rob a message that the chapter would need a rewrite. I sulked for a moment at my inability to get what I’d meant to convey in that scene into words on paper.
Then turned the page and kept going.
The book was funny and clever and hit all the key plot points we’d wanted it to. I found myself making notes like We had her do this here so we could have her do this other thing later—did we remember to do that? Only to find myself crossing off the note a few pages later, because yeah, between the two of us, we’d remembered. As I read, I forgot who wrote which scenes, completely immersed in the story. When I finished, I sent Rob a text:
I know this is going to be hard to believe, because between the two of us we don’t have a shred of self-confidence.
Rob responded with a simple question mark.
The book, I typed. I think . . . . I think this is really good. Like, really good.
A full minute passed before he responded. Really? Then: :)
My biggest worry, throughout the ten to twelve months we took writing and revising this novel, that at some point in the process we’d reach an impasse that would threaten to ruin our friendship. Rob is not only my go-to person when I’m struggling with something I’m writing and need to brainstorm, he’s also the best partner an editor could ask for. We often discuss books we’re reading, authors we admire, and confer about and debate anomalies in grammar we encounter. I didn’t want to lose any of these things over a novel. But there are two traits we share that turned into a successful partnership during this process: neither one of us has much confidence in our own work—which translated into no ego when it came to revision time—and we both really like to make people laugh. Our biggest obstacle, on the other hand, was that lack of confidence: our exchanges of Here’s the latest chapter, it might suck or Next installment headed your way; suspect I’ve reached new levels of suckitude, became almost laughable. (Almost. Seriously, I’m pretty sure we both need professional therapy.) It was the most fun I’ve ever had writing. Probably because we were going through all the normally solitary doubts and struggles together.
When Rob started reading our manuscript to make his own notes, he sent me a text: I think you’re right. This really is good.
Exciting, right? All that work and angst paid off, I sent back. Now when can we sit down to hammer out the outline for the second one?
Good news. We're still friends!
RSS Feed