If You Write It, It Will Sell

I did not choose to write.  My personality is such that I thrive when I'm around people not holed up alone in a room banging out words on a computer..  I write because I have to. Characters bombard me with their need to be heard.  A story line falls into place like a missile centering on its target.  Articles, novels, stories, poems and plays rest in file drawers.  Most often they remain untouched, rarely read or sent for publication.  They are never rewritten because once the writing is over, the urge is satisfied, I am at peace, and the nagging little inner voice is stilled.  
  
There was one exception when the voice couldn't be stilled.  It bugged me about -- 'The Gathering', a novel I had written several years before.  Now and then passages from it would streak into my consciousness, like a fighter jet zooming into the air from the runway of a destroyer.  Whenever I placed something into my writing drawer, the letters of 'The Gathering' file stood out like a flag unfurled on a balmy day.  
  
I had to admit it was a good story, and it could probably be shaped into a fine novel,capable of being published and well read.  It might even be a best seller, if it had the right author or editor re-work it.  As a first draft it lacked that certain quality that keeps a writer from the ranks of an author.  
  
I've never had an  overriding desires to be published.  As a writer I lack the discipline to rewrite. Do I lack discipline or courage? Am I afraid someone will tell me I m really not a writer?  Whatever the reason might be, The Gathering remained in the file drawer.  
  
One afternoon, as I slipped a handwritten poem into the drawer, I sensed a voice inside my head saying, if you write it, it will sell.  I slammed the drawer shut.  I had seen the movie,- - - Field of Dreams and knew that's where the words came from, only instead of "if you build it, they will come", I heard, "if you write it, it will sell."   
  
No thank you, I thought and walked away from the file cabinet.  I had no desire to  rewrite chapter after chapter to make it a viable piece of work. Rewriting was a mini war for me, one skirmish after another.

Besides the work of rewriting there is the battle for publication,  finding an agent or getting to the right editor.  Then after acceptance, selling the book.  It could be a long weary battle, and I didn't feel I wanted to become involved.   
  
"If you write it, it will sell!",  I heard the words over and over.  Ignoring them, I wrote a play, placed it in the file drawer next to the historical romance, which was behind the philosophical essay, that had been tucked between a travel article and a health and nutrition feature.   
  
'The Gathering', was pushed further and further back into the drawer.  I thought of it often,but managed to ignore it for two years, until a rainy Saturday afternoon when I was moving my work space into another room. As I carried a huge stack of files, some slipped  
out of my hands. I began to pick them up, but one file kept falling, and finally spilled its contents.  Of course it was 'The Gathering'.  Fuming with annoyance I carried the files into the other room and returned to pick up the pages..

"If you write it, it will sell," the words echoed in my mind.    
  
"Go away", I muttered, shoving the pages into the manila file.  
  
"All you need is a battle plan", the voice continued.  Survey your situation, prepare your strategy, line up the troops and victory is yours. 

I was losing it.  Thoughts like this  
attacking my mind were beginning to scare me.    
  
Sitting on the floor I pulled a few pages from the folder and began to read.  They really were not too bad.  Since I had let so much time pass, I could read it with a fresh slant.  The writing was not good, but the story was very good. I had forgotten about the characters.    I began to see their faces in my mind's eye just as I had envisioned when I created them. 

By God, I would give it a shot and try rewriting it.  Maybe then the voice would leave me alone. How foolish that thought was. I had constant advice from my unseen prodder as I worked on rewriting.   
  
"Give Anon a more surrealistic appearance," the voice ordered. 

"No! Peter would not wear anything but perfectly tailored clothes." 

"Why dont you make Marcy have something to  hide? "

"You aren't capturing Alice's heartache."    
  
My mind began the battle with the unseen force.  Leave me alone.  Let me write this thing myself.     
  
"Okay, but are describing Tony as he really is.  He needs to be more sarcastic and sullen."  
  
"Go away!  Leave me alone!"  
  
'Are you sure you want Anon to feel that way?  He is trying to guide them."   
  
"Leave me alone!" I shouted to the empty room.  Breathing deeply, I became calmer and read the words on the monitor screen.  
  
"I do not like to bother you, but that sentence does not read very clearly."  
  
"Leave me alone, or I swear I will never write another word!" my mind screamed.  
  
Silence prevailed.  I re-read the sentence.  It was not clear.  I reworked it.  Still not clear. What was I trying to have the character imply?  Why were his words out of sync with his usual forceful manner?  There is no way he could become a wimp in just a few lines.  
  
What is happening?  I questioned the inner voice.  
   
Silence.  
  
Should Alan and Tony have their battle so early in the story?  
  
Silence.    
  
Why is Peter getting involved, and Anon certainly should be more forceful, after all, it is his Gathering?  I threw out the questions as I surveyed the manuscript.  
  
The questions received no reply.  The voice was stilled.  Good.  I could get on with the story.  It didn't happen.  I reworked several lines and passages, but the words didn't  
convey the true attitudes of the characters.  The scenes seemed flat and without life.  To hell with it, I told myself.  I don't need this aggravation in my life.  
  
I shut down the computer, turned off the monitor, and stashed the old manuscript into the file drawer.  I had enough.  It was time to get back into the world.  For weeks I did not write anything.  I did not even read.  I wanted nothing to do with words.  Friends stopped by and I went out.  Life became fun again, with no nagging little voice butting in.  
  
One night, I was watching an old war movie on TV.  It was late and I was half-asleep, when the faces of the actors became the characters of 'The Gathering.'  Annon was the Major leading the Company.  The young soldiers were Peter, Tony, Alan, James and Mark.  I sleepily watched as they fought their way across the battlefield.  Tony was felled  
and Alan lifted him onto his own thin shoulders.  Peter helped them both get to a quiet spot.  Annon checked them, then hurriedly moved on with the other troops. 

What is going to happen to them? I wondered.   
  
I got up, turned on the PC, and started from the beginning, without looking at the old manuscript or pulling up the saved pages on the computer.  I was starting again, from scratch.

Daily I encountered the vast terrain of dubious metaphors, time worn cliches, obscure points of view, and lifeless dialogue.  I faltered over a trite phrase, and retreated from an agonizing plot device. 

   
Peter lost his enthusiasm; Mark tried to prove Anon was a fraud; Alan brought friction to the entire group.  
  
Stymied, I took long walks, sipped wine, and called old friends.  My shoulders ached and my mind begged for peace. I found that I could not, not write.  I was hooked.  Daily I visualized their faces and heard their voices when I was preparing a meal or running an errand.  They bombarded my sleep, and bits of their dialogue played in my ear like CD  
player set for continuous play. Annon's concern that he would die before a successor could be found urged me on each day.  Marcy's hope for a better life and Alice's tears fueled my passion.  
  
As I worked, I became less critical.  With out my immediate awareness, the inner voice came back.  It didn't tell me where structure was wrong, or scenes inept.  The words were encouraging.  "Keep going! Youre doing fine!"   
  
I began to have confidence.  Daily I labored over each scene until at long last I wrote, 'The End'.  
  
Closing my eyes, I visualized a new scene.   The flag was raised, the battles were won.  The Final Gathering, is complete, and ready published.

Now I've written it, will they come?