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A First Draft is Born
I’m sorry to worry you: I’ve seen all the messages asking where I’ve been, all the speculation about my absence, all the posts clamoring for my return, and — what’s that, you say? You haven’t written any?
Yeah, I know. What’s up with that? I disappear for a month and no one misses me?
I’d be awfully demoralized by that, except that I’m feeling good — despite the unravelling of the West and the curious lack of clamor for my opinion about it — because I’ve been gone for a good reason. I’ve spent the past month working from dawn to dusk on the book formerly known as Brave Old World: Europe in the Age of Trump. It is now called Stitch by Stitch: The Unraveling of the West.
At last, the first draft is complete.
I live at a northern latitude, and the Solstice has just passed, so when I say “dawn to dusk,” I’m describing a very long work day: I’ve done nothing but work on this book for days and days, barely even emerging to eat.
Parenthetically, I owe this, I think, to what’s come to be called Seasonal Affective Disorder, although I don’t know that it’s really a “disorder.” I have a great deal of creative and almost obsessive energy in the summer, when the days are long. Psychiatrists might call this mania, or hypomania, but since I use this energy to write books — rather than go on wild spending sprees, crash the stock market, or pose for naked photos while wrapped in an albino boa constrictor — I don’t think it needs to be pathologized. I might differ if you ask me again in the dead of winter, when I go into near-hibernation and can scarcely be roused from my depressed torpor, but in the summer, my mood is bright enough to accept with equanimity that this is the rhythm of my year, and I need to make good use of it.
Anyway, the point is that I’ve written the first draft. Many of you contributed, generously, to the book campaign, so I wanted to give you an update. It’s about 100,000 words, and it still needs a lot of filling-in. Some chapters are still skeletal. And of course, it needs massive revision; it’s still very far from being polished and readable. But that’s normal. All of my books began as drafts like this, and from here on, I know what to do with it.
The first draft is by far the hardest part. Or it is for me, anyway. I’ve heard some writers love the blank page, but I don’t. The first draft is a nightmare of confusion, false starts, and self-doubt. But once I’ve got something to work with — as I now do — I can begin the part I like: refining the argument, fixing deficiencies of logic, supporting the argument with examples, re-writing every sentence, over and over, and getting rid of the boring stuff. From here on, it’s work I enjoy.
I could not have written any of this, and could not continue to write this, without your financial support. You — entirely — made this possible. From dawn to dusk, literally, I feel grateful to everyone of you who contributed, and every single contribution has helped. Some of you sent me sweet notes when you contributed, apologizing for “only” chipping in five or ten dollars. Believe me, ten dollars is not “only” ten dollars when that’s exactly the amount you’re short on the electricity bill. You’ve kept me afloat, and you’ve given me the chance to do something I simply could not have done otherwise.
This 100,000-word draft could easily become a 300,000-word book. I can see how that happened to Gibbon. The theme is so broad, and the story so complex, that telling it properly seems to require writing at length. But I’m not Gibbon, so I have to figure out how much of what I’m writing is actually worth saying, and whether it’s worth making such a huge demand of my readers: Asking them to commit to a book that’s much longer than most on the market is perhaps asking too much..
I’m hesitant about suggesting this, but I’m going to suggest it anyway. Would any of you who contributed to the campaign like to read the draft? It is almost at the place where it could benefit from editorial scrutiny, and since it’s your money that’s supporting this project, it seems to me you’re entitled to know what’s happening to it.
Also, I’m hoping that seeing evidence that this book is really being written might prompt some of you to contribute again. On GoFundMe, it shows that I’m halfway toward the goal — but I’m actually much closer, because some of you (my Super-Patrons, and you know who you are) sent money directly to my bank account. So I’m in fact two-thirds of the way to the goal — even slightly above that.
The goal was based on my estimate of the expenses I’d incur writing the book, and that estimate has so far been accurate. I’m not sure I can stretch out the amount I’ve got until the finish line, so once again I’m passing around the cup. Some of you have, perhaps, now seen me ask for funding so many times that you’ve come to wonder if this book will ever be finished. Reading the draft will show you that it’s well on the way, and (I hope) worthy of your support. I’d be delighted to send it to anyone who’s on the fence about sending more money. If reading a whole first draft sounds daunting, I can send a chapter, instead. Just send me a message with your email address.
I’m hesitant about suggesting this, though, for two reasons. The first is that I don’t want to be demoralized by criticism — yet. That wouldn’t be helpful — yet. There’s a lot to criticize, still, and I’m well aware of it. The best time for editorial criticism would be when I’ve revised it to the point that I can no longer easily see, by myself, what’s wrong with it.
Second, I don’t want to be corrupted by criticism — yet. The point of raising money like this was to give myself the editorial freedom to write what I think is true, without the obligation to conform to anyone else’s idea of a bestseller. I’ve realized, though, that self-publishing only liberates you from those constraints to a certain extent. If you don’t like this book, you won’t support the next one.
If I know too much about what you want to hear, my desire for your money might cause me to focus overmuch on pleasing you.
What’s wrong with that, you might ask? Writing is a job, like any other. You can’t disregard what your customers want.
Yes, I agree. But paradoxically, if you try too hard to anticipate or reinforce your readers’ opinions, you’re no longer writing a book — you’re engaging in a marketing exercise. Since one of the themes of the book is that our intellectual life has been corrupted by this impulse — to the point that we’re destroying everything that has made Western societies the world’s most successful — I’m not sure it’s a good idea to show the draft around: I’m as easily corrupted as anyone.
Still, on balance, I think if I’m asking for financial support, it makes perfect sense for you to say, “For what, exactly? What have you done with it so far?”
So if you’d like to see it, just drop me a note. I might ask that you hold not offering criticism or advice for the time being — the time will come when that will be very helpful, but that time isn’t quite now. But if you think seeing what I’m doing would help you decide whether your money has been well-spent, or whether spending more would be a good idea, I’d be delighted to show it to you.
Published in General
As a self-appointed expert on all things threadworthy, and as a bit of a grammar Nazi (let’s not pick that analogy apart, OK?), I’d just like to point out the difficulty with a word like “unraveling,” which is one of those words which means exactly the same as the word which ought to be its opposite, namely “raveling.”
As in
I mean, was the sleeve raveled, or unraveled? And if it wasn’t “unraveled,” but was only “raveled,” then why the need to knit it back up again?
Hmm.
Difficult.
Regardless (or irregardless, as the case may be), I like the title, too.
I like having you around. You spawn interesting discussions.
That comment has gone through my mind, and often. I remind myself of that to reassure myself on days when I wonder if I’m just putting endless words on the page, as opposed to earning a living in a more proper way.
That’s usually followed by the thought, “Yes, Claire, but you are not Gibbon.”
Keeping one’s morale boosted is a delicate mental balancing act: One needs confidence, but not arrogance. Comparing oneself to Gibbon is by definition the latter, so … I use that thought sparingly and judiciously, and only in the dose needed to keep going.
That’s so sweet. Thank you. I try. It’s so good to know you think every now and again I succeed.
I shall send it to you, then. I think I should fuss with it just a bit more first: I just opened it and saw that my notes to myself — such as “INSERT VAN DER BELLEN” — make it quite hard to read. A bit of smoothing will make it more clear to you what those notes signify. Stay tuned.
Of course I would. Send your e-mail address and I’ll share as much as you’ve got the patience to read.
I would love to see the book, Claire! :)
One question about the GoFundMe: I don’t see the level that simply gives me a copy of the finished book, maybe autographed. If that was around the $25-30 level I would love to contribute.
I’m very pleased by the positive response to the title. I really like it, too. I think it might be a keeper. Everyone so far seems to find it interesting, suggestive, and appropriate, which is of course exactly the work a title is supposed to do. As usual, I owe it to a conversation with my father: We had a long conversation about the title. We both kept coming up with names, then saying, “No, that’s not quite right … no, that’s not right … no … ”
I had suggested something with the word “collapse” (I can’t remember what it was), and he said, “No, because you’re not talking about a ‘collapse.’ What you’re describing is more like a décousu. An unravelling.” Then followed a debate about whether décousu means “unraveling,” as he believes, or “unstitched,” as I believe. I said “unraveling” should be translated as “démêler” (and by the way, the dictionary agrees with me, as I established online while we spoke). It took me quite a while to realize that in fact, it didn’t matter, because the word in English is definitely “unraveling.”
And my father was of course right, that was what I was getting at. Then I played with a number of clunky variants, like The Unraveling of Democracy in the West. That was obviously wrong, because it’s directly contrary to one of the book’s arguments; to wit, that we’ve come to use the word democracy carelessly. We use it to mean liberal democracy, i.e., not just elections, but a whole cohort of rights and freedoms that are often in tension with pure democracy: rule by the mob. I argue in the book that elections do not a liberal democracy make … so that title wouldn’t make sense.
The Unraveling of Liberal Democracy in the West? No, because too many readers now associate the word “liberal” with “left-wing,” which again as I argue in the book is a source of grave confusion, because we no longer have a single word, the meaning of which is clear to us all, to describe the values upon which our country was founded. Also, too long. And too portentous.
Besides, it didn’t capture a key argument: That “the West” is a real place, both politically and geographically, that its component parts are not only becoming alienated from each other, but alienated from the values that made Western societies the most successful in human history.
Then finally it hit me: Stitch by Stitch: The Unraveling of the West.
Period. It captures it all.
To those of you who chipped in yesterday — you know who you are — I thank you, so much, from deep in my heart. It’s encouraging in a way I can’t even fully express — although, since I’m asking people to support me as a writer, I should probably refrain from saying that I don’t have the skill to express complex things, so let me try.
First, obviously, I need the money, and badly, so seeing that I’ll be okay this month — barring emergency, all the bills will be paid, thanks to you — is a massive relief. It takes away my constant companion: low-level anxiety, a dull knot of worry, about how I’ll pay the bills. It means I’ve got enough for groceries, cat food, and the monthly Internet bill. It means I don’t have to call the phone company to ask if I can pay the bill on installments, or hit my Pop up for a loan (again). It means not having to have that hideously embarrassing conversation with my landlord explaining that definitely, the rent will be paid, it will just be a few days late.
Being spared that humiliation and that worry is worth far more to me than the amount of money concerned. I can’t tell you how much I dread conversations like that. Some people can handle those sorts of things gracefully — I’m not one of them. I find it utterly mortifying. You spared me that shame.
It means when I go online and check my bank balance, I see “enough.” It means there’s no unpaid Visa bill flashing at me, mocking me: “You’re wasting your money on interest! You’re one of those people who can’t get her credit card debt under control! You’re one of those people who can’t manage her money like an adult!”
I am pleased to report that when I look at my Visa statement, it now says, “Zero.” Thank you.
But it means something much more, too. I’m working very hard. I’m sitting in front of a screen, from sunrise to sunset, trying to make a book appear. Mostly, I focus on the book. But every so often (maybe ten times a day), the dread thought occurs, unbidden: Is this really work? Is it respectable work?
It’s tiring, yes. At the end of the day, I collapse, exhausted: It takes a lot of energy. But that doesn’t mean it’s work.
Work is something you do in exchange for money, not something that’s hard to do. If no one pays you, it is a hobby — even if it’s a demanding hobby. And if you can’t pay your bills, you can’t afford your hobby: You need to get a proper job. So you also spared me a great deal of doubt about whether I’ve got a proper, self-respecting job.
I don’t tie my self-esteem to making a lot of money — obviously not; no one becomes a writer in the expectation of that. I don’t think the scale is linear: “The more money you make, the more respectable you are.” But I do tie it to earning enough to pay my own bills, on time, without going into debt. If you can’t do that, it’s not a job — and if you don’t have a job, you’re not a mensch. So you allowed me, this month, to feel that I’m a decent, self-respecting, productive, and employed member of society.
And you spared me this thought, too. The thought that plagues every writer. What if no one reads it? It’s impossible not to worry about that: This is the age of Twitter, and it’s just a fact that fewer and fewer people read at the length of a book. (This is another theme I’m writing about: What we’ve lost as a consequence of losing the discipline of thinking in that way, at that length.) It’s not ridiculous for me to fear that all these days and weeks and months of work will be for nothing: In the end, no one will even read it.
When I see that I have readers who are willing to support this campaign with their own money, I know that at least they will read it: No one would contribute their own money to a book campaign unless they genuinely wanted to read the book — so I know that the people who’ve contributed will read it, from beginning to end. That gives me confidence that I’m not engaging in an act of glorified self-absorption. I have real readers out there, and they will read it. (Whether they will like it is another question, but at least I know they will give it a chance.)
Writing is a job you do entirely alone. It’s not a team project, except for those rare times when you discuss the book with family, or friends, or editors. This is why so many writers go crazy. Forget the complicated neurological explanations; it’s much simpler than that: If you don’t have a team of coworkers around you, it’s far too easy to go down a rabbit-hole of doubt. You don’t see reactions to what you’re saying, so you don’t know if you’re really talking to someone else or just to yourself. You begin wondering if you’ve wandered into a private world of utter solipsism and complete self-indulgence.
So seeing contributions to the book is integral to my sanity. They reassure me: “Yes, I am actually speaking to other people.”
Thus you’ve not only paid my bills, you’ve given me a sense of dignity, and sanity, too. It’s the difference between wondering if I’m just someone who’s gone on a long, private, extended Facebook rant — and feeling like a professional writer who’s able to earn her keep through her skills.
Finally, it makes me feel better about our species to know that there are people who are generous enough to contribute to something like this. This is completely contrary to the overall sense of meanness emanating from the Internet at large. It shows me that we’re not all just sniping at each other from behind our computer screens.
There’s only one thing about seeing these contributions that unsettles me: It means I cannot let you down. This book had better be worth your confidence.
So if I disappear again for a bit, it’s because I’m thinking of everyone of you who contributed, and thinking, “Nanda, John, and Galen are going to read every word of this. I would die of shame if they think, “What a waste, I could have spent that money on someone or something more worthy.”
And with that, I’m going back to work.
Thank you.
Wouldn’t you be surprised if I did just that. Perhaps I should find out just how much it costs, first? This is Paris, which means it might be quite reasonable — or it could be jaw-droppingly expensive.
I actually would not enjoy owning a jaw-droppingly expensive dress. First, I object, in principle: Paris is full of lovely dresses to be had for a reasonable amount of money. I dislike conspicuous consumption: I love pretty dresses, but there is no difference, to my eye, between the prettiness of the dresses that can often be found on sale here for 35 Euros and the pretty dresses that cost 3,500 Euros. It’s often just a matter of the name of the designer. I don’t care about those names — or “the latest season,” which is often different from “last year’s season” in ways far too subtle for me to grasp.
Second, I bring nothing into this apartment whose loss would devastate me: If you own seven cats, it is wholly unreasonable to own expensive fabrics, finely-upholstered furniture, delicate carpets … or expensive dresses. If it can be scratched, or shedded upon, it will be. I have a few items that I keep in a shelf so high they can’t reach them. When I need to look professional, I put them on immediately before leaving the apartment and race to the door before they get covered in cat hair. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn’t — it’s amazing how fast a curious cat with curious claws can shred a pair of nylons or cover a white dress in black fur, or vice-versa.
I hope you have a thousand separated backups of your book!
Of course you get a signed copy of the book! I explained that when I first introduced the project here, but you’re right, that should be on the GoFundMe page, because not everyone will have seen that. I’ll add it now: Thank you for pointing that out.
Great news about getting then first draft done, bravo!
Claire,
A beautiful woman in a beautiful dress is not conspicuous consumption but a necessity. The world would be such a dull place without it that the economy would suffer, scientific innovation would suffer, artistic creativity would suffer, and even mathematics would suffer (ask your father if I’m not right). You are right about the price. Here on the Island, I’ve seen more than a few examples of amazingly ugly dresses with very high prices. Besides, who is in the dress is far more important.
My father could be a bit of a task master when his Graduate Students were pushing for their Ph.D. One student in particular, Jerry, a very wild character with a great sense of humor, had got his wife pregnant with their first child as he was working hard on his thesis (is there a correlation?). Of course, Jerry took lots of time off to be with her. She gave birth to a very large baby boy and Jerry returned to the lab with cigars for everybody. Having smoked up the lab all morning, finally in frustration, my father said to him, “Jerry, anybody can make a baby but it takes a real man to synthesize a protein. Get back to the lab and finish your thesis!” This command became legendary and the story was repeated often.
Right now I too am writing something. It is something I’ve started to write many times over the last 10 years. While in the ICU, Gd popped an idea into my head that gave me a perfect introduction for the piece. I’ve written the introduction (a miracle) and am now into the detail. For the first time, I have some confidence that I can bring it off.
Not that I want to be selfish but seeing you in the dress (at least a selfie) would keep my fighting spirit up. Hopefully, I won’t be required to get a loan to pay for it but no risk no gain.
Regards,
Jim
@Claire that was just an example, and LED’s are pretty foolproof and long lasting. I did buy one for my son, the winters in Wisconsin are brutal, and it seemed to help him in college .
Here’s some info from the Mayo Clinic.
Congrats on the book, will be looking for it.
Just buy the damn dress Berlinski.
(James, the world needs more like you.)
formally “Brave Old World: Europe in the Age of Trump. It is now called Stitch by Stitch: The Unraveling of the West. ”
If that was tongue in cheek ( my emphasis), I will add my patronage, happily ( I have a draft of a contribution I was going to post here for months called “The Arc” as in the historical, natural/cyclical arc of nations/states empires etc.) ….if it wasn’t and you’ve decided to just broaden the scope but retain barely disguised digs at the deplorables, whom by electing Trump has savaged the West…. bon voyage.
I totally second this, Claire: As that cable show used to say: “Say ‘Yes’ to the dress!” :-)
I was holding out for the albino boa constrictor.
Claire – can you share the chapter titles so far?
I can! That would be a good post for the weekend.
A very successful author I know agrees with you on this. He’s said more than once that the goal of a professional writer is to “get paid.” (Searching his website for that phrase returned 68 posts.) For example:
Or as Dr. Johnson said: “No man but a blockhead ever wrote, except for money.”