I wish I could say I had a process I use, over [...]]]> I’ve spent the past few weeks going through the new book (formerly 100 Breakfasts now officially titled THE SECRET OF EVERYTHING).  Ed and agents came back with suggestions and I had some thing I knew I wanted to smooth and fix, too.  

I wish I could say I had a process I use, over and over again, to rewrite a book, but I don’t.  Different books require different fixes–tweaking a character’s arc in one book, smoothing a bumpy or unrealistic plot in another; adding or taking away elements, shifting a time line.  Uncovering a secret.

This is the point when I remember all the stages of the book, from the first glimmerings of the idea, through the development and writing and drafting, now to the deep polish and smoothing.  It’s a lot of work, writing a book! I always end up with a big box of materials, research and backstory and draft upon draft upon draft. I wish I was a less messy writer, but I do require many drafts, often up to 20 or even 30 , though not 30 whole drafts.  Some scenes emerge whole and clean.  Some are elusive and take many rewrites to show themselves.  Some are raw and need toning down.  Whatever.  It’s a lot of words. A lot of attention. 

At this point, what surprises me is how often changing three sentences can shift the meaning of an entire thread.  It’s a lot of tweaking. Starting on the first page and combing through carefully, checking for tangles, for dropped details or threads, for repetition and banality and the Words of the Book, which are the words I have overused to the point of absurdity in a particular manuscript.  (The words this time? Crisp, pelt, and pirate. Make of that what you will.)

I’m always hoping to find a grace note, though happily, I found one early for SECRET, which I hope you will enjoy as much as I do.  In THE LOST RECIPE FOR EVERYTHING, the grace note is when Julian smells his mother’s perfume in the air–which I can tell you without giving anything away because you have to read the whole book to understand the significance.  A movie example I love is in Titanic, when the old woman finally died, but finds herself on the beautiful, significant staircase of the great ship, dancing with her beloved.  It’s the thing that doesn’t have to be there, but offers so much more emotional pleasure for the reader.  In commercial fiction, it is often a symbol of life returning to order.  In literary fiction, it can embody the theme.

Sometimes, the muses are kind and drop something in my lap, as they did with this book, when I wrote the last scene, completely exhausted and ready to send my child out into the world so I could sleep. (It is part of my process that I don’t write the last scene of a book until I have completely written and rewritten and rewritten the entire book, so I often write it the day before mailing.)  The grace note simply arrived, sweet and real and true.

Because there is so much food in this book, as with Lost Recipe, I had a lot of last minute food testing to do. How, for example to poach an egg.  Have you ever done this?  It’s hard!  I used almost a dozen eggs to figure it out–but that happily gave me a new scene that brings a character alive.  I had to try Hollandaise, too, but that was pretty easy in comparison.  (And yummy, though by the time I finished the testing, I was tested out and the dogs lucked out.)

I’ve been up working on the last couple of scenes this morning and will take the dogs for a walk, make a couple of more passes, then email it off again into the world.  It will be coming your way at the turn of the new year. 

Wish me luck in finishing up today!

It was remarkably moving.  The [...]]]> Christopher Robin gained his US citizenship on Wednesday.  It’s a fairly long process, involving interviews and tests and proof of travel dates outside of the country (try figuring out exactly when you traveled for the past decade).  We went up to Denver in the morning for the naturalization ceremony. 

It was remarkably moving.  The ceremony was held in a beautiful theater setting at a college, and although I tried to get some decent photos, very few were worth saving.  I especially tried to take pictures of the little boy next to me, who had to get up and get little flags for himself and his mother. She wore a yellow scarf over her head, and the demure but embellished dress of an African muslim.  Her son was about five, exuberant, full of excitement, with a totally American accent.  She spoke to him in a language I didn’t know, soft and sibilant; he spoke back to her in that entirely American voice.  His father stood up to look for them (family and friends were in the back) a tall, serious looking black man in a suit and tie. The boy exploded in delight, “Daddy!” he waved his flag.  “We’re right here!”  I caught his mother’s eye and she beamed at me.  I beamed back. 

He waved his flag and said all the words, reciting the plege of allegiance and the oath of citizenship.

There were 290 people there, from 69 countries.  A big group from Mexico (as we are in Colorado, after all), but also from Germay and Iraq and Russia and China and Vietnam and Peru …..many, many places.

I found it moving, far more so than I expected.  The tidy suits and the good shoes relaying the importance of the day.  The dizzying number of languages I heard around me, the distance some of them must have come to be here.  How difficult! How extraordinary!  The girl on my left was blonde and young and very pretty. She spoke –Polish?– into her cell phone, holding like a walkie talkie.  She wore loops of scarves and long socks and boots.  How did she get here? What was her journey?  I saw a skinny black man, exquisitely tidy but for his very much too big suit coat, elegant bones in his radiant face.   Where was he born? What is his native tongue?  A tiny old woman with very black hair and sturdy laced shoes and a blue coat. Where did she begin the journey?

Probably some of them were making purely pragmatic choices.  Perhaps for some, like CR, it was just finally time. 

But for others, it was a fine, fine day.  That father and his little boy, now American.  I wanted to drink up every story, hear the journey of each and every one, take their pictures and listen and listen.  Instead, I simply played witness.  How extraordinary! 

Afterward, CR and I had lunch at PF Changs to celebrate, and it was a very fine day.  Even if he’s ever so British (American) and would never exactly say it just that way. 

But this morning, my shoulders are still bothering me.  I’ve had two falls while walking dogs in recent weeks, and both knees still have [...]]]> I’m skipping yoga this morning.  Ordinarily, this class is one I look forward to all week, taught by a woman who has a radiant peacefulness I find centering and powerful.  

But this morning, my shoulders are still bothering me.  I’ve had two falls while walking dogs in recent weeks, and both knees still have the scabs and bruises.  When I sat down to do meditation yesterday morning, what I noticed was that everything vaguely ached–knees, shoulders, arms.  Tired, tired muscles.

So, yes, exercise is good for you. We all know that. It keeps you supple, keeps you young, keeps you smarter, healthier, and calmer.   I’m a big fan.

But moderation in all things.  This morning, I have no desire to go to yoga or take a walk (and the dog has a sore paw anyway) or write or plot or clean something.  My mother is coming for a visit. We’ll get outside on this brilliant, sunny day, and have lunch somewhere and look at geegaws neither of us will buy, and then tonight, I’m kicking my kid off the television downstairs so I can watch a video. 

I have a tendency to keep going until I fall down.  Today, I’m stopping before that.  How about you? What can you moderate this weekend? Where do you overdo it?