Rachel

Like all brilliant ideas of the 21^st century*, the decision to write a novel together occurred over a bottle of pinot noir and a bag of Taco Bell. I had been dreaming of writing a cheesy high school romance, but my snooty writer brain wouldn’t allow me to do it. So of course, I enlisted the help of my best friend.

She was equally too snooty to write a YA romance on her own, but she was on board with my idea at the first nacho.  (This was before we discovered the Cheesy Potato Burrito.) At the onset, we were committed to giving each other permission to tap into our teenage brains. It was a joke we were both in on, something we could laugh at together—all the way to the bank! Because if it’s one thing that we knew about books that make money, it was that they are cheesy AF. (OBVIOUSLY not Harry Potter.)

But then something happened. Some combination of our English and Creative Writing degrees, along with our unshakable feminism, forced us to care. As we sat laughing at all the tropes we would implement, Tiff’s brain began spilling out an incredible backstory and motivation for the plot. Things began to get interesting.  We were gonna do this.

::Subtle Segue::

Whenever I mention that I’m writing a book with a friend, particularly to other writers, I generally get the same responses: horror and curiosity. If you are a writer, you probably are feeling those things right now. If not, allow me to explain.

First, the horror: how can you let someone else have any creative license over your work? I am not a unique writer who adores other people’s input. In fact, I hate collaboration. I’m the one rolling her eyes at meetings and muttering, “This could’ve been done over email.” In school, my preferred method of ‘group work’ was to do everything and have other people edit/comment/revise. And writing is an intensely private artistic practice. It’s a safe space for your brain, for your soul, where you do not have to cater to any expectations until later in the process.  I am as obsessive and narcissistic about my work as the rest of you.

But I didn’t have that sense of dread with this, likely because when the project formulated it included Tiff at the core. I had finished a shitty first draft (apologies for the language, but that’s what they’re called) of my first novel and was willing to spend its incubation period trying something different. I didn’t feel the possessiveness of Tiff’s and my book the way I have every other word I’ve ever put to paper. That’s the key: come at it from a different perspective.  Another key: work with someone who you think is il miglior fabbro—the better craftsman.

Now for the curiosity. How do you do it?

The pinot/Taco Bell night began with a raucous brainstorm. Ideas flowed. We interrupted each other a lot.  Jason sat on the couch and pitched in ideas and refilled our wine glasses. When we settled on the bones of a plot, we recorded it as a voice memo, which I still have, and which is hardly recognizable as the same story.

Then we set up a Google drive folder where I eventually posted the first draft of a prologue, that has since been cut in its entirety. (Prologues, it turns out, are frowned upon by agents and publishers. Write tip.) Tiff edited it and added to it. Then said, “What now?”

So I wrote the first chapter and posted it in the folder, and we followed the same process. At this point, we weren’t working from an outline. We only had the basic idea of what was happening, and I was pantsing. (“Pantsing” is when you ‘write by the seat of your pants.’ Basically, brain diarrhea.) Since then, I have learned that I will never write without an outline again. Granted, my pantsing yielded some good stuff—oh no, not actual writing, which has all been cut—but some characters appeared who hadn’t been a part of our original discussion. And they were keepers. But next time I will save the pantsing for outlining, not drafting, and I suggest fellow pantsers do the same. Trust me, it will make revising a million times easier.

So then it was Tiff’s turn to write something. We talked about what should happen next, and she wrote it and posted a new document in our shared Google folder. We went on this way for a little while, but it soon became apparent that all the stuff I threw in was complicating the story, and if we didn’t have a better road map I was going to pants us into oblivion.

Our process got more serious a few chapters in, and we set up weekly meetings to discuss our novel and other random life events, like the discovery of the Cheesy Potato Burrito. Every Wednesday at “8:30,” we met at Blend in North Portland with our laptops where we created several more folders in our Google drive. Here’s what we currently have:

1. The Main Folder – This has our rough drafts, in order, of each chapter
2. Book Notes – Documents such as the full synopsis, setting sketches, and later, revision worksheets. This folder has sub-folders!
   1. Books and Artifacts – Descriptions and histories of key items our characters encounter
   2. Characters – An individual document for each character. At first, they were pretty bare-bones, using just a template that came with my Scrivener software. However, after reading K.M. Weiland’s books and blog, these character sheets have become more filled out. Keira’s, our protagonist, is 20 pages long! SINGLE SPACED.
   3. Out of Date Shit – This contains all of our ideas that we realized were dumb, but to which we were too attached to throw in the garbage.
3. Meeting Notes – Basically the minutes of each of our meetings—what we talked about, assignments for the week, problems to solve, etc.
4. Revised Novel – The most current versions of each of our chapters. This is the Master Text

This blog post is somehow super long, so I think I’ll save the details for individual posts.

Up Next: How we fumbled through characterization together

If you have any questions, please comment!

*citation needed