Synopses . . . or why bother?

First of all, let me say that I can when pressed write a synopsis. They are on occasion even fun and interesting (not always, but sometimes).

Once I wrote a synopsis of a book for Harlequin American that was three or four pages single-spaced (I like to make editors think I write short, so three pages single spaced with double spaces between the paragraphs seems shorter than six double space pages. The 'heft factor' works in my favor, if nothing else. It's lighter to carry home on the bus). But I digress. . .

My perceptive writer friend Barbara Bretton read it (can't remember why because on the whole I never let synopses out of the house), and she said, "Ah, I get it. They meet. He gets hit in the head. They go down the road. He gets hit in the head. They live happily ever after."

Um, well, yes. Basically. You can see where I left myself a lot of room to maneuver in the middle. Flexible, that's me.

And often it works. But not this time. I didn't actually write anything that might have guided me through Spence and Sadie because . . . well, the book resisted. Every time I sat down to do it (and it would have been financially smarter to have done it), I couldn't. A gaping black hole appeared where my brain used to be. Once I moved away from the synopsis, shut the file, started to think about something else, the brain, as if by magic, reappeared. Dunno why. Some books are like that.

So . . . here I am now about 3/4 of the way through the book, and I think I see the end out there. I said so yesterday, didn't I?

Then I read a book last night that made me think, "See, McAllister? Not all heroes are inarticulate. Not all heroines are mute. Some can actually talk -- to each other. Why not yours?"

Good question. Why not mine?

So today they've been talking. And you know what? The last quarter of the book totally changed. They are still two chimps in a narrow dark tunnel. But they are really talking now. Substantively. And doing other things as well (for which Spence is exceedingly grateful and Sadie is delighted about and neither of them realize that DISASTER is about to befall them).

And you know what else? It isn't the same disaster that I thought was going to befall them. Not at all. It's a much more organic disaster, if that makes sense. It has grown much more intensely out of who they are. It's not a misunderstanding. Nor is it an exterior disaster. It's gut level -- the best kind. The kind that takes insight and character growth to resolve.

That's why I like to read other books while I'm writing. They make me think about my own book (vastly different than the one I read last night) in new ways. They jar my brain. They challenge Spence and Sadie. In other words, they help.

And since this time I'm not at all beholden to a synopsis I am happy to go with it and don't have to justify it to anyone. I've certainly changed books before when they didn't grow up to become adult versions of the synopses I started with. But I always feel faintly guilty when I do, as if I've led my editor astray.

But my editor hasn't been led astray at all this time. In fact she hasn't been led anywhere at all. She's just busy working on everyone else's books until Spence and Sadie come in.

It's interesting when this happens. It's healthy, I think. It means the book and the people have lives of their own. But honestly, I'll be glad when it's over. I'm getting really tired.

ps: if anyone can tell me the title of the Harlequin American described above, I'll send you a copy of it or of another title in my back list (because you obviously know that one already), limited only to it being one that I can actually find in my attic! Send me an email at the 'contact Anne' tab on my website or make a comment here if you know.