Just
a week ago, after giving my “Why You Need to Outline” speech to a local
writers’ group, a woman stepped up and shared that though she’d been
writing for years, she hadn’t managed to break into print. Her best
friend was having the same problem. They’d known each other since
college, lived in the same suburb, and sent their kids to the same
schools. Because they had so much in common, the two women considered
pooling their talents (the friend is great with dialogue and this woman
is super at scenes), thinking that way they’d stand a better chance to
be published. But she’d heard horror stories about perfect pals who
became bitter enemies by pairing up to write, and knowing I’ve had a
few “write together” relationships, she wondered what I’d advise to
help protect their friendship.
I’ve never felt comfortable
launching into answers when I haven’t taken time to pray and think
about the questions. So I promised I’d go home, give the matter some
careful thought, and get back to her in an e-mail. This is what I wrote
her:
Think of those hurry-scurry days
when you were planning your wedding. Did your minister hand you and
your fiancé a contract guaranteeing happily ever after? Did he place
his hand on the Bible and vow that the two of you would never grow
apart, for any reason, then hold that hand in the air and swear you’d
never disagree, never get angry, never feel hurt or neglected or taken
for granted (or, God forbid, jealous)?
Well, of course he didn’t! The
man was in the business of leading, not misleading,
couples. And the hard truth of the matter is if he’d said anything
about the future, it would have been something like “nobody can predict
the future.”
So let’s put a spin on the
now-cliché Forrest Gump quote: Change happens. And there’s just no way
to prepare for the way we’ll feel when change affects us.
A coauthor relationship, like a
marriage, is a partnership that unites two very different, very unique
individuals for the purpose of facing the world of writing together.
Just as most couples start out with the best intentions, writers who
venture into coauthor relationships believe in happily ever after, too
. . . until those changes take place, and one half
of the partnership says, “Hey, this wasn’t part of
the deal.”
So coauthors, like potential
spouses, need to begin by talking about their future. About each
person’s writing strengths and weaknesses, work ethics, how much time
they’ll each dedicate to the project. They need to decide, up-front,
how they’ll split the workload. Who’ll submit the work once it’s ready
for an editor’s eyes? Who’ll act as go-to person when it rouses
editorial interest? They must decide before the work begins that no
matter who proposed the idea, they’ll share equally as much as is
humanly possible.
For some coauthors, the
preplanning works. Others, sadly, end up like half
the married couples who start out believing in happy endings. Them thar
changes happen, see, and those changes are responsible for minor
disagreements that can lead to temporary separation . . . or divorce.
Prenups
avoid some of the conflict when Hollywood types or corporate moguls go
their separate ways. They have tangible assets that can be divided up:
homes, furniture, cars, vacation houses, stocks and bonds, etc. A
written work—particularly
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before
it’s published—is more like one of the
offspring of
marriages. Because once you and your friend meld time and talent and
edit the thousands of words that’ll become your novel, it won’t be easy
to say “I wrote this and she wrote that.”
The solid coauthor relationship
is like any marriage that has survived years of life’s ups and downs.
It works because the partners put the success of the work ahead
of things like who wrote what and who wrote more. When interviewers ask
how the writers came up with reader-identifiable main characters, who
takes credit? And which one takes the bows for having developed and
resolved believable conflicts? Conversely, which writer takes the blame
when reviewers cite “too many flashbacks” or “the writing is passive
rather than active”?
So by all means, hammer out as
many of the details before you sit down to write word one. Ask
yourselves what problems other writing duos face, and figure out how
you’ll cope when the two of you encounter that dilemma. Set aside the
joy of starting out on this exciting new venture together and expect
pot holes, pitfalls, and stumbling blocks in the road ahead, because if
you let your Pollyanna bonnet blind you to such things, you’re sure to
trip and fall . . . and the landing will have painful consequences.
I wish I could give you a
tried-and-true formula to guide you toward a “happy ending” in your
story and your coauthor relationship. If you’re
over twenty, you’ve already learned there are no guarantees in life.
So don’t waste time rubbing a
rabbit’s foot, hanging a horseshoe above your office door, crossing
your fingers, plucking four-leaf clovers from the meadow, or wishing
upon a star.
Instead, get down on your knees
and pray for all you’re worth that every detail you and your partner
hammered out before you wrote “Once upon a time” will build a solid
framework that’s still standing strong when you type “The End.”
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