Confessions of an Amateur Writer, Part II

In the wake of my ignorant faux pas with the literary agent I really wanted — described at the end of Confessions of an Amateur Writer, Part I — I sent a draft of my first seven chapters to some dear friends in Dallas – Amy and Colin Batchelor.  They were on the list of those to whom I’d been e-mailing daily updates about the unfolding events in Uganda, and Amy was a frequent commenter and encourager on the updates.  She was also among the first to suggest that I turn my experiences into a book.  So while I was visiting them in Dallas, I took a risk and asked Amy to read what I’d written.

Her first reaction: “This reminds me of ‘Same Kind of Different as Me.’”

As often happens, my blank stare betrayed my ignorance.  “Um, what?” I asked.

You haven’t read “Same Kind of Different as Me?”

“Um, no.  Is that a book?”  I decided then wasn’t the time to burden her with the knowledge that I didn’t actually read books, other than the text books from which I taught Torts and Evidence at Pepperdine Law.  My astounding (and embarrassing) lack of literary engagement is yet another reason I had no business trying to write a book at that time.

Amy explained that I had unwittingly structured my book the same way as “Same Kind of Different as Me” – dual first-person narratives told from the perspective of two very different people unlikely to ever meet.  So the next day, I bought it and read it on the plane home.  It is brilliant.

Soon thereafter, one of my former students Chris DeRose got a book deal to publish a historical/political analysis of an important election early in our nation’s history.

Chris was generous with his time and liberal with his patience as I peppered him with questions about the process of getting a book deal.  He was even kind enough to connect me with his agent who, in turn, graciously agreed to read a couple chapters of what I’d written and talk with me on the phone afterward.

That conversation with Chris’s agent was equal parts enlightening and humiliating.  His first question was, “What’s the book about?”

This momentarily knocked me off balance.  I thought he’d read what I sent him. My pause before answering clued him into my cluelessness.

“I know the book is about you and a boy you met in prison and what happened thereafter, but what is the book about?  What is the theme?  What is the point?  What do you want the reader to learn?” he inquired.

To call me perplexed as to how to answer his question is way too charitable to me.  I initially mumbled something about “God” and “love,” but ultimately confessed that I hadn’t really thought about it.

“OK . . .” he said.  “Well, who’s the antagonist in this story?”

“Antagonist?” I asked, trying to stall while I desperately searched my tenth grade English memory banks.

“Yes – the villain.  Who’s the bad guy that creates the conflict and drives the action?”

“Um.  I guess I would say . . . injustice is the villain?”

My closed-eye swing missed the pitch by at least three feet.

“Listen,” he said, “there’s a process to storytelling that audiences expect that’s more complex than people think.”  In his sentence, “people” played the role of gentle euphemism for “wannabe morons like you.”

“I recommend, Jim, you read a couple books about storytelling as you continue with your project.  You have a good story, but investing some time in learning how to tell your story will be quite helpful.  I’d start with ‘Save the Cat’ and ‘Story.’”

Before we hung up, he gave me the “It’s not you, it’s me” line about why he wouldn’t be able to take me on as a client.  It felt like a foot to the groin.

For a few weeks, I seriously contemplated giving up.  But once again, Amazon kindly placed on my doorstep a couple more tools wannabe morons like me needed if I had a prayer of getting a publisher, much less an agent, interested in what I was writing.

I started with Save the Cat because, well, it was shorter.  I read it – twice.  I laughed out loud every few pages – not because the author was funny (though he was) – but because the concepts he talked about were so simple and so blatantly absent from my story.  For example, one chapter explains that every character in your story needs a limp or an eyepatch – something (other than just a name) to allow the reader to recall which character you are referring to.  Don’t expect the reader to be able to keep everyone straight without visual cues to trigger memories.  (Incidentally, the Save the Cat title derives from the notion that if you want your main character to be liked by your audience, that character needs to do something admirable (like saving a cat) near the beginning of the story).

I next tackled the other book – Story.  It’s much more complex, but it pounded home the elements of a story that need to be present (in almost all cases) in order to meet the reader’s expectations.  Anyone contemplating writing a book or screenplay (both books are actually targeted at screenplay writing) should read at least one of these books, if not both.

That next summer, I was back at the Yates & Yates firm.  I had sent another draft, and Curtis was kind enough to meet with me.

We started off talking about where things were in Henry’s life and mine.  “You’re moving to Uganda in a few months, right?  And Henry’s appeal still hasn’t been argued, right?  What’s your hurry with finishing the book – why not let the events play out before trying to get it published?”

He, of course, had a point.  But I was still laboring under the misconception that writing a book shouldn’t be that difficult or take that long.

With respect to the content of the book, he was quite encouraging about how the underlying events would make a good story, but he was equally clear about the quality of my writing.  “You write like a lawyer,” he said.  And this wasn’t a compliment.  “I’m a lawyer, so I’m not saying this is a bad thing, but storytelling requires a different kind of writing.  You’ve written a report – it needs to be a story; your book is an architectural drawing – it needs to be a painting.  What you are writing is a memoir, and that needs to be as good as a novel in order to get published.”

I tried to sound out memoir (mem-wahr) and tried to figure out what it was.  It sounded like armoire, but I was pretty sure he wasn’t talking about furniture.

Mercifully, he explained that a memoir is a literary genre that involves a first-person, non-fiction narrative about an important part of (memory in) the author’s life.

“Have you read many memoirs, or novels, for that matter?”

Cricket, cricket.

“Well, I recommend you take a few months and read as much as you can so you can get a better idea of what publishers are looking for.”

So I did.  In fact, over the next three years, I read close to half of the books that made the NYT Bestsellers list – both fiction and nonfiction.  (At this point, my kids would correct me, so I’ll admit that I only read a few – more accurately, I listened to audiobooks for more than a hundred bestsellers).

Some of my favorites are:

And all things Harlan Coben (I read at least a dozen).

To say this experience was a bit eye-opening is like saying the Sahara is a bit sandy.

In the next installment of this Confessions of an Amateur Writer series, I’ll discuss how the editor of Guideposts Magazine helped me overcome my biggest struggle in applying what I learned from reading the hundred-plus bestsellers – how to handle writing dialogue that occurred years earlier — and then I’ll describe how I finally got to the point where Yates & Yates took me on as a client.

Thanks for reading.