Author: Karen Odden

Last weekend, I went back to Milwaukee for the first time in twelve years to attend my friend Ruth’s book club, a group of nearly a dozen women who have meeting for over twenty years (!) and all read my debut novel, A LADY IN THE SMOKE.  Ruth assured me that they’re all very nice and love to read; and Ruth is so lovely I could only imagine her friends would be kind. But I was curious and a bit anxious about how this was going to go. It’s one thing to receive comments from anonymous readers on Amazon and Goodreads—but quite another to be sitting In The Room when people discuss one’s baby. I mean, book. Would they be polite but reticent, with that manufactured smile and an overenthusiastic, “Oh, yeah, it was a great read!” Would they shy away from asking real questions, not wanting to offend someone who is a complete stranger? Would they ask questions about Victorian England that I couldn’t answer? Before I left Ruth’s house, I ate half a box of chocolate-covered peanuts.
 
But of course they were warm and engaging. The first question came from the hostess and was, perhaps inevitably, about my research: How long did it take you to research all that about trains and railway schemes? That was an easy one. And then we were rolling.
 
But I was relieved that they didn’t shy away from asking real questions. And a meeting like this, with a group of women who are well-read and inquisitive, pushed me to articulate what I am trying to accomplish with my novels. I came away with three main insights.
 
Ruth brought up that she sometimes forgot she was in Victorian England because the relationships among the characters felt very contemporary. And I suppose they would because, after all, the pain of betrayal, a desire for revenge, loneliness, uncertainty, curiosity about our parents, empathy, loyalty to our friends, and a desire for love are all part of our (my) lived experience. Are these emotions timeless? Some scholars would say not, that there are emotions that emerge and gain traction at particular times in history (Patricia Meyer Spacks historicized boredom, for example, in her book of that title); but I do believe there is a certain universality and timelessness to the big emotions.
 
This led to another point: the inner life of the characters. In response to one of the questions, I explained that one of my deepest pet peeves is with novels in which secondary characters (that is, characters other than the protagonist) exist only to foil or further the main plot. I call these “narcissistic novels,” as in these, it seems that the whole novelistic world revolves around the protagonist. For me, it’s important that the other characters have lives and concerns of their own that have nothing to do with the protagonist’s desires and needs. So, for example, Elizabeth’s best friend Anne Reynolds’ chief concern is not Elizabeth’s dilemma; it is her brother Philip, who seems on the verge of self-destruction and desperately needs Anne’s help. Another point: characters need not only to change over the course of the novel; they should also, at times, deceive the protagonist and the reader. Someone commented that none of the characters (except Lord Shaw) really surprised them; they showed who they were from the beginning. These readers were half-expecting Paul or James or someone to trick or betray Elizabeth. Perhaps at some level, I am uneasy with pulling the rug out from under my heroine; but this is something I need to think about for my next book.
 
Finally, it’s very important to me that the research is real—and by that, I don’t mean just factually accurate. I mean that when researching, I am not allowed to pick out the historical details that feel “convenient” for creating the conflict or resolution that I’ve already decided will happen. It is important to accept when my research takes me places that I don’t expect, when it doesn’t yield the apocryphal tidbit I was looking for to tie up a plot point, for example, or provide a justification for a chapter I want to include. As a result, my book feels more authentic to me; and often, paradoxically, the unexpected find is exactly the piece I didn’t know I needed—the twist or turn that creates the additional mess I need to get my characters from point A to point B.
 
The evening drew to a close; the enormous trees, so unlike the stiff Arizona cacti, rustled against the black sky; the patio lanterns that had kept the insects away were burning down; the appetizers were mostly gone. I offered everyone my heartfelt thanks. Every author (particularly every debut author) should have a chance to be the guest star at a book club. It’s terrifically fun and affirming, and I returned home to Arizona feeling yet again that (in the words of Elizabeth Gilbert) I love writing more than I hate failing at writing. 

So two months ago, I finished a draft for my next novel, DOWN A DARK RIVER, about an inspector at Scotland Yard named Michael Corravan. It is set in the spring of 1878, mere months after a bribery and fraud scandal has put three Senior Inspectors in jail, and the Yard is viewed with suspicion by the press and the public alike. One morning, a murdered young woman, the daughter of a wealthy judge in Mayfair, is found floating down the Thames in a lighter boat. 

I sent it to my agent Josh, who said: “It’s amazing! I love it! The history, the suspense, the inspector! But, Karen, it’s 136,000 words long!” This genre of police procedural, he explained, usually runs about 100K—and if it’s historical, you can get a way with a little longer.

I know I tend to overwrite that first draft; I “write my way in” to a book and have to chop out the first chapter or two. Or seven. (As in the case of my first novel.) Much of that is back story, which is necessary to keep in my brain, but not necessary to keep in the manuscript. The comments about my first novel, A LADY IN THE SMOKE, included that it was well written but at times a bit slow, a bit wordy. So I believed him. I promised to do what I could and hung up the phone.

36,000 words? One-quarter of the book?! It’s like going on an all-lettuce diet. Painful. 

Among the many lessons I learned from my first book was the value of giving it to readers who come cold to a manuscript. So I reached out. Six people agreed to read the book: a friend who has published four books and has her fifth coming out; a professor of Victorian literature; two friends who read widely across every genre; my sister, who is a former humanities teacher and likes to scribble in margins; and a museum curator/archivist in California who was incredibly supportive of LADY. All of them asked me what kind of feedback would be most helpful, so I wrote a cover letter, which for most included this paragraph: 

Dear Reader (just like in Jane Eyre): The kindest and most helpful comment you can make is, I’m getting bored. Because if you are, a potential editor definitely will be. Tell me where your mind wanders because that’s where my cuts will begin. Tell me any time your brain “stops” you and pulls you out of the story. You can just make a quick note: “She wouldn’t say this.” “Why is he angry?” “Feels too modern.” “Wait, didn’t he say he was 19 before?” “Who’s this character? Can’t remember.” “This feels like an info dump.” “You’ve used this word three times in a row.” That is usually all I need to take a closer, directed look at a particular passage. 

People took varying lengths of time—from three days to three weeks—and provided feedback in various ways: one called me to talk; one typed up pages of notes; three used the “insert comment” function; one scribbled on hard copy. My author friend completely agreed with my agent; shorter is easier to sell and appropriate to the genre, she insisted, pointing to dialogs in particular that could be cut by half. The professor suggested other cuts and pointed out that the word “lapin” in French is actually “rabbit” not “wolf.” (Arg. I know that. So how did I read over that passage a dozen times and not catch it?) My sister and reader friends pointed out dozens of inconsistencies in character, typos, grammar mistakes, and subplots that didn’t seem to go anywhere and could be nixed. The curator/archivist pushed me to think hard about the relationships between the characters: Why are James Everett (the doctor) and my inspector even friends, when they’re so different? And how deeply does the inspector love Belinda, and why doesn’t she appear until chapter 14?

Six weeks later, I have a manuscript that is considerably leaner … 106,000 words and so very much better because of my readers, including these six and others, who have read my first pages and scraps. In my gratitude journal (which I try to keep daily) my beta-readers are 1, 2, and 3 today.