Novel Rewards

by Deirdre Reinert

Why did I choose to write a novel? Honestly, I think a lot of it boils down to pure selfishness.

Allow me to explain. I remember the first real compliment I got—or the first one that I took seriously. I'd taken a short-story writing course as an undergrad at the UW, back in... Well, let's just say it was over ten years ago. At the time I read mostly horror, and I wrote mostly horror. I thought that if I could only make one reader feel half of what I did when my jaw dropped at a clever twist ending... Well, that was probably too good to happen, but I had fun trying. I had a blast writing a tale about a rock groupie who goes too far and finds herself in a monkey's paw-like situation. I didn't really know if anyone was going to like it and didn't care. I just felt great. The week after my story made the rounds, before class, a guy I respected told me my story scared the hell out of him and that he actually had trouble sleeping. He couldn't get the final image out of his mind.

I got a feeling then like no other I'd ever experienced—a strange heady rush that was not quite the same as the joy I felt when meeting my favorite rock band or winning a dance contest. Not better, just different. Maybe it was power. Maybe it was pride. Maybe it was ego. Maybe it was a little bit of each.

Whatever it was, I loved it.

Through graduation, I wrote some short stories—just fiddling around with ideas I liked. I didn't have anyone read them except my mother, my best friend, and my then-boyfriend (now-husband). Then, between working full time and realizing I'd met the man I wanted to spend my life with, writing got shoved aside.

Life changed drastically for me in 2001, starting with an unexpected job layoff. Then, in the space of months, I had a death in the family, one of my favorite authors dropped dead of a heart attack, I lost two friends to cancer, and—for some reason this is what really destroyed me—Joey Ramone, the singer of my favorite band of all time and one of my heroes, died of cancer. Telling you what he meant to me and about how he and the Ramones literally changed my life would be a book-length essay. And we all know, of course, about 9/11. Trying to make sense out of all the deaths, I struggled to find something positive about the events. I realized life is too short to not spend your days doing what you are passionate about. I had some severance pay coming and I'd had some characters and a vague outline of a novel running through my head. I figured, do what you love and maybe, if you work hard and love it enough, a little money will follow.

And so, having absolutely no idea what I was getting myself into, I began my novel. I estimated (like a fool) I'd pound out the first draft in two months, three tops. Five intense months later, I'd finished my first draft. Then came the hard part—fixing what was wrong with the novel, which took another six months and at least six drafts.

If I'd been working full-time or even half-time? Couldn't have done it. I just don't have it in me to set my alarm clock three hours early, get up, and do my 2500 words before work. I know there are plenty of people who do this, and do it well, and I have nothing but respect and awestruck admiration for them. I remember when I finally typed "The End" on my rough and ragged 170,000-word first draft, and telling fellow writers at Bookfest the following week that I'd finally finished my manuscript. They looked at me as if I'd just executed a perfect back flip and assured me it was no small feat, an incredible achievement. Not until many months later, when I knew there was not one more word I would change, did I feel I had earned that praise.

Since my goal is to be published, I started sending out copies for peer review last spring. As much as I loved the writing process, I wanted people to read it, like it, and be entertained. I remember all the books that got me through rough periods in my life—the books I'd smuggled in and snuck off to read in the supply room at work, the ones that kept me up till dawn, and especially the ones that helped me escape into another world. The reactions I got from readers were so much more than I'd hoped for: The friends that told me they cried over the death of one of the major characters. The times readers told me they couldn't put it down, that they didn't get enough sleep because they stayed up so late reading it. How the payoff scenes made them grin. I got that feeling again, that feeling I got back as an undergrad when the kid in my class told me he had to sleep with his light on because of something I'd written. That heady rush, that glow, the high of knowing I'd pulled the words out of my head and put them on paper in a way that brought those emotions to readers. Those reactions were like nuggets of gold, akin to the feeling after I plugged coin after coin into a slot machine to have the bells finally ring and an avalanche of coins tumble into the tray, or getting a kiss on the cheek from a celebrity I've had a crush on for years. Those came close, but this opiate-like rush was new. I know I will eventually publish (it might take me eighty years and 800 rejections, but by God it'll happen). Still, I remember reading an e-mail from a friend who was halfway through my manuscript, and sounding genuinely happy for the first time since we lost a mutual loved one. That's really all I need. Success and popularity? I believe I'll get there someday. But for now, that feeling is enough.

Though I'm not the kind of writer who could happily have manuscript after manuscript pile up and be sealed away, never to be read again by me or by any reader, I could live with that. Still, I want that reaction, that joy of knowing I entertained a reader, helped someone escape from their day-to-day problems for even an hour—to know I'm capable of pulling the right words together, polishing and crafting prose and storylines until they sparkle. If that's all selfishness, then I guess I want to be a career novelist for selfish reasons.

I just want to know that for a moment, something that I put down on paper made someone laugh, gasp, cry, get excited, or smile. There's nothing like it. And that's why any day I get the time to sit down and really get writing, is a day I feel like the luckiest woman in the world.

Deirdre Reinert is a freelance copyeditor/proofreader currently working on selling her first novel while writing her second. She lives with her sweet husband and beloved kitty-cat. Web sites: Kitten With a Whip Reviews and Days to Go