Remember when you were a kid watching the Olympics (Summer or Winter)? There was one (or maybe a dozen) sport(s) that captivated you, enthralled you, made you sit up and announce to the world (or just your parents) that you were going to be there someday, standing on the top podium, a gold medal weighing you down, listening to your national anthem with tears in your eyes.
You’d run outside and sprint down the street–you were going to win the 100m dash and proudly proclaim the title of fastest man/woman on the planet.
You’d strap on your skis and plummet down the (smallish) hill closest to your house, imaging the rush of wind on your face as if it were the steepest of slopes.
You’d dive into your neighbour’s pool and splash your way to the other end in a frenzy of windmilling arms and kicking legs. You pictured your opponent in the next (imaginary) lane, you envisioned your last stroke, your fingers stretching out before you, and with a last burst of energy, you victoriously touch the wall first.
My dream sport was synchronized swimming, a less-than-marquee event, yes, but one I thought was beautiful. It was dance, which I loved, in the water, which I adored. To me, it was the perfect combination and I dutifully dipped into my above-ground, shallow pool and spun and twirled and kicked my legs up as if I were an world-class athlete.
I never made it. To the Olympics or even to my first synchro class. There were none in my area (a fact that, sadly, I learned was false only 30 years later when I finally, as an adult, took up the sport).
Obviously I had no idea what I was doing on my own (such things as tutorials on the not-yet-invented Internet had not yet been invented). I tried for a while, but soon gave up, realizing instinctively that what I needed was someone to show me the way.
I needed a coach.
Why, then, as I aim for my version of the Olympic-equivalent of writing (getting published) or even dream of the medal (winning prestigious awards/recognition), did I so naively think I could do this on my own?
Truth be told, I didn’t think that. I was neither ignorant nor arrogant enough to believe I had the skill and knowledge to catapult myself to the top of the writing game by myself. I’ve known for many years that I needed the equivalent of a coach–an editor, a mentor, a teacher, a guide. It’s why I signed up for creative writing classes and enrolled in Humber College’s Creative Writing program. They helped, absolutely, especially the invaluable, one-on-one advice I got from my mentor, Richard Scrimger. Yet, the reality is, after the end of the program, Richard had to focus on other students (a shout-out to Richard, though: he’s still helping me when he can–he’s been extraordinarily supportive!)
What to do… what to do… Join writers’ groups? Find critique partners? All valuable, but that’s not the same as having an expert coach you. I really wanted someone who knew the business, who could work with me one-on-one, who’d push me to improve, prepare me, train me so I had a shot at going up against the best writers out there.
Who knew? Turns out there are people like that: book coaches.
And I’ll be working with one!
I’ve signed on for one session with Jennie Nash, a highly-regarded coach in the literary field. As she explains it, her job is
1) to help writers determine the strategic, big-picture plan of their books (something I admit I’ve thought too little about)
2) deep, comprehensive editorial guidance
3) emotional support coming from someone not only in the business, but someone who, as a writer herself, has gone through the very turbulent process (sooooo valuable to a new writer (i.e. me) who’s plagued with self-doubt.)
Already, before our first session, she has taken and interest in me and my work (and confirmed what I feared–my query letter needs work). But she pushed me to re-consider the order of the problems I have to tackle: in my last blog entry (“The Odds of Getting Published”), I mentioned I needed a killer query and while I believe I’ve done all I can on my manuscript, I recognized agents may see things I missed. Obviously I (naively) believed those things would be small and wholly surmountable as soon as an agent, who naturally gushing over my book, would gently point them out in and among the praise for my brilliant execution of a fabulous idea.
Or not. (Insert sound effect SPLAT!)
Jennie’s initial advice? (Which is so ridiculously obvious in hindsight.) Focus on the manuscript first. She says my query is hard to hold onto the through-line of the story. That could be for two reasons: I don’t know how to write an effective query that best reflects my very clear manuscript or (more likely, she insinuated, without judgement), I don’t have a clear idea of my story in the book itself. She hasn’t yet read it, so obviously, she can’t yet give me that answer.
But she will tackle the first set of pages, as well as grilling me on how well I know my story. That’s what I get to look forward to next week: a tough-love drubbing.
It’s scary: what if she tells me my whole book–the one I’ve poured three years of blood, sweat, and tears into is shit? What if she infers that I am, in fact, more ignorant of writing than, in my arrogance, I believed I was? What if, in other words, I make a complete and utter fool of myself, by calling myself a “writer” in the presence of a published author who works with real, accomplished authors everyday?
Or what if she does tell me my book needs work, gives me suggestions about how to fix it and the encouragement to continue?
That would take me one step closer to the podium.
Bring it on, Jennie.