The Next Big Thing

by Anne Barnill

Everybody wants it.  You know what I mean--the ‘big’ book, the one that sells like glasses of lemonade in the desert at high noon, the one that buds, then blossoms into a mega-book. A phenomenon.  Something like the Harry Potter books or Fifty Shades of Gray.  I’ll admit it; I’d love to come up with the next big thing.  My agent would love it even more and my publisher, well, I’m sure they’d be over the moon should it happen.

Chances are, though, it won’t.  Those ‘big books’ are a pretty rare occurrence and, unfortunately, completely unpredictable.   Not that people don’t try to guess which book is going to go viral.  After all, publishers are betting on books all the time; it’s part of the job.  They select books they believe will make money.  They pick books they hope will succeed beyond the writer’s wildest dreams.  But, even at its best, it’s a guessing game.  Try as they may, no one really knows what the next big thing is going to be.

The publishing world is changing so rapidly--ebooks, independent publishing, the internet, Amazon, fewer brick and mortar stores--publishers and agents aren’t quite sure what will happen next.  Some folks say the days of said agents and publishers are numbered as more and more writers take total control of their work, from creating the story to binding the book.  Others believe books themselves will disappear completely.  With publishing companies as one dish in a corporate smorgasbord, the pressure grows greater each day to satisfy the bottom line, to publish books that will make money—sure-fire hits.

Where does all this uncertainty leave the writer?  It leaves this writer confused and unsettled.  It also leaves me convinced that chasing after the ‘next big thing’ is akin to searching for the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow—sure, it may be there but it’s unlikely I’m going find it.  So, what to do?

Years ago, before I had published any books, I came to the realization that, for better or worse, I am on this planet to write.  It’s what I do and how I make sense of the world.  Last year, while under treatments for cancer, writing is what kept me sane.  The minute I could drag myself from the bed to the computer, I did so, knowing that, somehow, if I could write even one paragraph—chemo-brain and all—I was a step closer to being my true self, rather than the ‘invalid.’  The writing often felt like wrestling a bear because my brain didn’t work the way it had previously—I couldn’t remember words and often lost the sense of a sentence.  The work was frustrating because I forgot what I had written the day before and had to start at the beginning each time.  With all that, I am convinced I healed faster because I wrote.  I know my spirit healed faster.

Not only am I a writer, I write for the audience of One.  Once I accepted it was my job to mine my little vein of whatever talent I might have for telling a story, I realized the work was important to one person other than myself—The Great Creator.  And, whether or not my work was ever published, I was to write for the pleasure of this Creator. 

I still believe that.  I have certain stories deep in my soul that I want to write.  These stories are not the stuff of blockbuster hits—at least, I don’t think they are.  Who knows?  But they are my stories, tales that bubble up inside of me.  And I will write them.  I will write them because they are important to me, not because I expect to become wealthy as a result.  I will write them with love and respect, using everything I have to make them as rich and deep and beautiful as I can.  Most likely, they will be ‘little novels,” stories about people and what happens to them, how their hearts break open, how they mend, or how they are left with ragged edges.  I will never have time to write them all.  But I will try.  And I have made peace with the fact the next big thing will likely belong to someone else.  I will content myself with my stories; I am a writer.

Book Baby Two

Baby Number Two, Or...  How to Survive a Difficult Pregnancy

In real life, my first two sons are fourteen months apart.  You would think after giving birth once, the next time would be easier.  You would be wrong.  My second son had the cord wrapped around his neck and was in distress.  The obstetrician had to take him quickly.  I did not have a Caesarian because he was almost born when he got into trouble.  The more he struggled to emerge from the womb, the tighter the cord pulled.  I remember being cut and feeling every snap of flesh before I passed out from the gas they were giving me.  When I woke up, three days later, my son still had blue lips and a purple face.  He was still in the incubator and I had to sign a paper giving permission to operate on his skull in case there was fluid on his brain.  Thankfully, he was fine.   But it took me a long time to recover from that traumatic experience.

I feel a little bit like that with my second book-baby.  I’m long overdue, and this time is not nearly as easy as the first.  Of course, being diagnosed with stage 3 uterine cancer last January did not help things.  First, I had a radical hysterectomy, followed by chemo and radiation treatments.  I had turned in the first draft of the book to my editor, who had many suggestions for improvement.  I was determined to get another draft for him, but it has taken eleven months so far.  I still have a month’s work to do, at the very least.  Luckily, he and my agent have been wonderfully understanding and patient.

I supposed chemo treatments might be compared to morning sickness.  There is nausea and extreme fatigue.  The brain doesn’t work as well as usual.  There is the constant fear that something will go wrong.  But, just like in pregnancy, there is not much you can do about those things.  All you can do is live through them.  Thankfully, working on book-baby 2 was good for my spirit, even though it was extremely difficult.

Book-baby 2’s are difficult for other reasons.  It’s very common for writers to have a weak second book; publishers refer to it as a ‘sophomore’ book.  There are several reasons for this.  The first book usually involved a deep passion for the project.  After all, there were no guarantees the book would find a publisher, no promises from an agent.  The book was written because the writer WANTED to write it.  Book 2 is a little different.  There is huge pressure to write a better book this go around.  If the first book was decent, the pressure is on for book 2 to be even better.  And, if the writer can’t produce a better book, she must face the chances of her career being over almost before it gets started.  Publishers and agents want writers who can produce on a regular basis, regardless of their insecurities. 

There is also pressure to produce a best-seller.  With mergers, indie-writers, ebooks and all the flux in the world of publishing, it seems more and more emphasis is being placed on book sales.  Where once there was a concern for the state of American letters and a dedication to producing books of quality even if they didn’t sell particularly well, now it’s the bottom line all the way.  It’s like expecting your newborn to be a genius from his very first cry.  That kind of pressure can’t be good for mother or book-baby.

So, for the past eleven months, I feel like I’ve wrestled my baby to the ground.  She is not like her big brother, not in the least.  But, as I prepare for the last month of pregnancy and I see her shaping up, I have discovered that I’m rather fond of her, after all.  No, she isn’t like my first baby because I’m not the same and neither is this little production.  Life happens, and it forms and changes us.  These changes are reflected in our writing, for better or worse.  I’m just happy to have book-baby 2 and I can’t wait to see her when she makes her way into this world.

What Cancer Has Taught Me About Writing And Living

by Anne Clinard Barnhill

Two weeks after my debut novel "dropped" into the world, I was diagnosed with stage 3 endometrial cancer.  Since then, I've done a six-week book tour across North Carolina, had a radical hysterectomy, gone on a blog tour and started chemo.  Not exactly what I'd expected in what was supposed to be 'my' year.

At first, I didn't want to tell anyone about the disease, but that quickly became unfeasible; people were contacting me to do readings and I had to explain why I couldn't; my editor had been patiently awaiting my revisions to the second novel and I didn't want him to think I was dawdling; and, I figured it was something my agent should know.  So, I went public.

As I deal with the gritty life of coping with cancer, I've noticed some similarities between the writing life and living with cancer.  An odd coupling, to be sure, but one that has landed on my head.  For what it's worth:

1) Part of the joy of writing is the surprise stories and poems often bring.  Just when the writer isn't sure of what to do or where to go, inspiration hits and you're off, the adrenaline pumping and the muse calling back over her shoulder, "Hurry up!"  Cancer is a surprise, too, though not in quite the same way. Three little words--you have cancer--can turn your life upside down in just those seconds it takes to utter them.  That is the power of words.  And that is the substance with which writers work. To render words into poems and stories carries its own power and that power can change the world, too.  Just remember, that one word--Yes!--is all you need to keep going with writing, even if the yeses are few and far between.  Yes, I like this story! Yes, I want to publish this poem! Yes, this novel is for me!  One word, in the blink of a frog's eye, the world is changed again.  Yes, we can cure you!  Yes, you'll have treatment! Yes! And, while I love the sudden insights writing can bring, surprises like being diagnosed with cancer are the kind I could do without.  But there are good surprises even in that--suddenly, I'm very clear about how I want to live the rest of my life.  Being a more dedicated writer is one of those aspects cancer has brought into focus.  Plus, I've been writing such a long time, I know everything that happens is grist for the writing mill.  Cancer is just one more thing I will know about and understand in a very personal way.  More grist, better writing.

2) I've been writing professionally for over twenty years.  I started late in life, raising and supporting my family first, like many writers, I suspect.  Two qualities helped me make it those full twenty years before my first book (AT HOME IN THE LAND OF OZ: Autism, My Sister and Me) was published---patience and perseverance.  I can't tell you how many times I've rewritten that memoir, carefully excavating more details, searching through my father's records, reorganizing and touching up the story until it finally found a home.  For a woman who wants to hit the ground running, quickly doing chores on the way out the door, such patience does not come easily.  It's a skill at which I've had to work hard. 

Perseverance, on the other hand, is more in my nature; some might call it stubbornness.  I can dig in my heels and not move an inch.  This has proven to be helpful as a writer.  I really do believe you can move a mountain, one little pebble at a time. So, while I'm not always naturally patient, I have a bulldog's tenacity.  Over time, I have learned to have patience with the process, to understand that sometimes, writing moves of its own accord to its own rhythm.  And to keep at it, no matter what.

Cancer seems to operate on similar principles.  It shows up unannounced and quickly gets to work.  To deal with it, I need to be patient with the process, even though the process is debilitating and sidelines me from most of my other work.  I need to keep on getting the treatments until my doctors tell me it is time to stop.  I can't quit.  Luckily, because of my writing life, I begin to understand these concepts and can use what little discipline I have developed as a writer to become a healthy cancer survivor.

 3) Faith, hope and love seem to be important in the writing life, as important as patience and perseverance; faith in your work and in the ability to bring the vision in your mind to incarnation; hope that the effort will be seen and valued by others; and love---love of the project, of every character and every nuance in the work, of your own small abilities, of the smorgasbord of joy, tragedy, foolishness, that make up this wild, crazy experience of being human.  These same qualities impact the cancer life, too--faith in your doctors to have the knowledge to cure your illness, hope that you'll be one of the good statistics, and love. Love received in the form of meals prepared by strangers who are trying to help, from friends who call and hold you when you cry, from family members who allow you to scream and moan and complain and refuse to turn away.  And the sudden love you feel toward this imperfect, yet fully-functioning body--the same body you have chastised for its wide hips and tendency to pad the middle, the same body bearing stretch marks from the birth of three fine sons, the same body that gives you the pleasure of birdsong, a sunset, the spinning earth, every single day.  It is for love we write; it is for love we live.

My life as a writer has served as good preparation for the unexpected.  I never dreamed I'd get cancer right after my book was born.  But there it is--we're never really ready for such events. I guess if you're going to be a writer, you have to say 'yes'---yes to it all--yes to the love and yes to the pain; yes to the deadly doldrums of recovery and yes to the debut novel being released.  Yes to the fear and yes to the courage! Yes to receiving as well as giving love! Yes to the skylark and the raven! Yes and yes and yes!