That One Book

Most of you who are reading this are writers. So you’ll probably understand what I’m getting at here.

You know, I sometimes casually mention in conversation that I’ve written seven novels. It reminds me of a scene from a movie where somebody inserts their self-perceived prowess in a conversation that really would do just fine without it.

But it’s true. And it really is an accomplishment. Writing a novel is hard.

Writing one that sells is even harder. I never mention that part. “I’ve written seven novels,” I say. If I’m in a particularly Sheldon mood, I’ll follow that up with “And people who have never met me actually bought a copy.” While this is true, exactly how many of those people have actually bought one of my books is something that anybody with a shred of empathy would never dare ask.

Yes, this is going somewhere. Hang in there.

If you’ve ever written a book that didn’t sell quite as well as you were hoping (by which I mean it generated tear-inducing flatlines in your KDP report when you were CERTAIN it was “the one”), you can usually go back later and explain why. I’ve long said that writing novels is an important part of learning how to write a novel.

Let me digress for a moment here.

Almost everybody reading this, being a writer, has probably read all the de rigueur how-to-write-a-book books. They all say more or less the same thing in different ways. There is that implication that, having read the book, you are now prepared to write your successful novel, if only you faithfully apply the principles you just read about. There is also that common belief that writing a (one) novel is a real accomplishment. For the serious writer, it is just the beginning. And almost nobody ever gets it right the first time. Or the seventh.

Each failed novel is a learning experience. And yes, they get better as you go. Even if they still don’t sell.

Which brings me to That One Book. While we all gleefully publish our works hoping for our latest work to be the one that finally gets traction, only to have it be yet another dud, we eventually come up with an idea that makes us stop and say to ourselves, “Hold on now, this one might actually work.” It’s a good story. It’s commercially viable. It sizzles in your mind before you write a single word. By God, you can see it on screen with Amy Adams and Ryan Reynolds.

You know, in some reserved penthouse at the pinnacle of your hopes and dreams that this book is different from the rest.

And so it never gets written.

Even after five years.

Oh sure, I have 50,000 words or so written, but this is just rough draft stuff. I know the current rendition of scenes and sketches are not fulfilling the full promise of this particular story.

Here’s why. While we take our lumps for past work, That One Book is the one that, at least in our minds, cannot fail. Because if it does, we’ll be crushed and just might give up.

As long as it is in the production stage, it can never disappoint us. So we never actually publish it. It’s GOING to be The One is emotionally more acceptable than It WASN’T The One. I don’t know what it is about That One Book, but I think every author has one. It’s why people find unpublished works in attics that then sell for millions and become a movie. (I’m looking at you Suite Française.)

Which leads me to my third act twist: I think that most successful authors have, in fact, submitted That One Book only to have to have it rejected by every agent, publisher and critique group who saw it.

And then they wrote the next one.

But first, I have to write, and actually publish, That One Book. It’s been five years in the making. Maybe you’ll like it. Maybe you won’t.

But it’s coming.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you.