I haven’t had anything to say in a while. My mind has been a record player. I started a new novel in 2020… five years ago. I
wrote and rewrote the book. I know the characters, all the major and minor players. I know the town’s speed limit and can draw a map of the town and surrounding area.
Something has been wrong, and being insanely persistent, a person who can’t give up or set anything down (or let my characters flounder and never exist in the world because I love them), I have tried multiple scenarios in terms of plot—trying to figure out the heart of the book. The hardest questions to answer are always, “What is the novel about? What is the story bare bones? Who is the protagonist? What do they want? What’s going to get in their way?”
I am a great fucking writer. I have confidence and an MFA in fiction writing. I know how to avoid adverbs. I understand tension and pacing and point of view. I know the rules, and I like to break them. I have chutzpa. I know how to hold the reader’s hand. All that good stuff, but the plot… forget about it. It HAS to be organic for me. That is the art. The characters standing up and straightening their slacks and blouses and checking their lipstick and turning to me and saying, “I got this shit, Michele. Sit down and do what I command.”
But here I am, five years into novel #5, still perfecting or 
attempting to perfect novel #4 as well because I love George Glass and George Glass loves Lily Snow (If you know, you know…), and I finally have something to say, one writer to another. I was so hellbent on writing the story I thought this novel was supposed to be, that I wasn’t listening to which of my characters really needed to speak. I wasn’t paying attention to which of my characters was desperate for redemption and a fresh start. I wasn’t putting together how to incorporate the back story (another rule… avoid back story) by making it a front story and how to write this multigenerational novel about women, their relationships and their secrets. I felt that I had nothing to offer (except to my students): “Writing is holy because you are making a whole universe, but writing is hard.” For the past few years, the writing is hard half of this mantra was the focal point. I, who am usually so optimistic, was caught in a riptide going out to sea.
I’m back. I got something to say. Find the character who needs their story told the most. No matter what you think you want to say, no matter what story you think you’re writing, don’t be afraid to give it up. I suggest you talk to other writers. That’s what I did. Shout out to Lydia Netzer. I don’t know exactly what I’m doing because then this wouldn’t be the book I know it’s going to be. I’m currently letting Deb Brewster tell her story. She’s so fucked up. She wasn’t one of my favorites. She’s not angelic like Susie, and she’s not artsy like Lola.
She’s Deb. She had an affair with a married man. She watched her dad die of a massive heart attack. She’s a waitress, and she was Valedictorian of her graduating class. She’s not a very good mom either. Deb’s got issues.
Lola and Susie are still here, but Deb needed me more than they did. Deb’s been there since 2020 so maybe I should’ve known. I know now. If you’re a serious fiction writer/novelist, you have to listen to your characters who are facets of you, and you have to tell the truth.
I hope I have a lot more to say this year.