My mother, Penelope Niven, and I are both writers, and because of this my family often participates in our author events, traveling with us on tour (when possible) and purchasing multiple copies of our books to give to everyone they know. When my grandmother Eleanor was alive, she would call up bookstores in the greater Charlotte, North Carolina, area and ask if they carried the latest books by Mom or me. If they didnâ€™t, she would say, â€œWell you should!â€ and hang up.
While most of my family members, wonderful as they are, donâ€™t understand the actual day-to-day process of writing a book, they are our greatest and most enthusiastic fans.
My momâ€™s brother, Bill, however, seems to get it. Bill isnâ€™t a writer, but he is creative. He is brilliant, possessing a wonderful kind of downhome, folksy wisdom. Heâ€™s tall and ramblingâ€”and, at 65, is the same big-hearted country boy who, at least once a week, used to â€œfindâ€ stray animals in the bushes outside the house where he and my mother and their two sisters grew up. He has a North Carolina accent a mile wide.
Historically, Mom writes very long books. Her biography of Carl Sandburg, the definitive work on his life, is 843 pages and her biography of Edward Steichen, the definitive work on his life, runs 808. Her upcoming, hugely anticipated biography of Thornton Wilder, due out in October from HarperCollins, is 836 pages. (Voices and Silences, the book she wrote with James Earl Jones, is a mere 394 pages.)
As I am in the thick of edits/copy edits of my upcoming novel, Becoming Clementine (from Plume this fall!), and as I prepare to return to the researching and outlining of the novel that will follow it (title still to be determined), I keep Uncle Billâ€™s Advice on Writing nearby, along with a picture of his daddy, my granddaddy, who also had wise things to say about the writing process, namely: deadlines are really lifelines and, when editing, you can almost always lose the last sentence of every paragraph.
While most of Billâ€™s comments originated with my motherâ€™s work, they are certainly relatable to my own, especially as I am faced with editing and cutting and trimming down the length of Becoming Clementine, and trying to think of alternate ways to say â€œlike,â€ â€œsaid,â€ and â€œjust,â€ all of which I tend to overuse.
Uncle Billâ€™s Advice on Writing
1. A book should not be so long and big and thick that it has to be hauled around in a wheelbarrow.
(Case in point, each first draft of each Velva Jean book has been cut down drastically, and my first draft for The Ice Master was 813 pages long. In the end, I cut 300 of those pages before it ever went to print.)
2. You have to remember that there were parts of Carl Sandburg’s life that were boring even to Carl Sandburg.
(Or Velva Jeanâ€™s life, or Ada Blackjackâ€™s life, or ice master Robert Bartlettâ€™s life, or my own life, goodness knows, as told in my high school memoir, The Aqua Net Diaries. In other words, you donâ€™t need to relay everything that ever happened to your character/subject. Pick and choose the moments to write about.)
3. If you are bored writing something, people will most likely be bored reading it.
(I remember this every time I conduct research or write a new scene and find my attention wandering off in the middle of it, or, most recently, when I reread Becoming Clementine and feel the slightest bit restless.)
4. It must be easier to write short than to write long.
(Even as Iâ€™m stripping out words or lines or paragraphs or whole chapters of Clementine, Iâ€™m thinking to myself: Why didnâ€™t I just leave these things out the first time around? The answer, for me at least, is that even when I remove sections of a manuscript, I know the material was once there. I think writing long to end up writing short helps the book seem deeper and more layered, even if youâ€™re the only one who knows whatâ€™s missing.)
5. A lot of people seem to think that just because they can write the alphabet they can write books. From what I’ve seen of your work, it’s a lot more complicated than that.
(It is, truly, but itâ€™s surprising how many people donâ€™t realize it and how astuteâ€”I would even say profoundâ€”this observation is. I work all the time. ALL the time. Yet one of the things I hear most often from well meaning people is: â€œIâ€™ve always thought I would be a writer if only I had the spare time,â€ as if we are talking about Canasta or kite flying or crossword puzzles. My mother hears this frequently too, and once, at a party, she heard it from a prominent brain surgeon. When he said, â€œIâ€™ve always thought I would write a book if only I had the time,â€ she replied, â€œThat is so funny. Iâ€™ve always thought I would practice brain surgery if only I had the time!â€)
6. I remember the little girl who looked at one of your momâ€™s books and said, “Wow! I didn’t know anybody knew that many words.” And your mom said, “It’s not so many. I used a lot of them more than once.” Still it must be hard to keep track of them so you don’t repeat words too often and get on your reader’s nerves.
(It is hard to keep track of them, particularly when you write two nonfiction books about Arctic expeditions and have to describe ice again and again. This is one reason Mom and I love to read the dictionary because even when you use a lot of words, there are still so many to learn.)