The earliest file I have on Sockeye dates to 2002. Did it really take 18 years to write it?

One answer is that it took a lifetime. You may have heard the story, perhaps apocryphal, about how a tourist asked Picasso to draw something on a napkin and said she’d pay whatever he felt it was worth. With rapid strokes of his charcoal pencil, he sketched a goat. “That will be 40,000 francs.”

“But you did that in 30 seconds,” the woman complained.

“No,” Picasso said. “It has taken me 40 years to do that.”

True or not, that story can equally be applied to writing a book. How can a writer’s work be anything but the sum of all his or her experiences, learnings, attempts and failures? 

So, yes, in a way, it took me a lifetime to write Sockeye.

What the hell took so long?

But to be less philosophical, the time from earliest idea to published book was nearly 20 years. 

What went on during those two decades?

Most of those years were spent doing things other than typing words on a screen. In addition to working my freelance writing business full-time, it took time to develop the idea, create the characters, build a plot. It took more time to do research on topics including salmon recovery, dams, eco-terrorism, the Nez Perce tribe, and fishing (some of that first-hand experiences). This being my first book, I also read extensively about how to find an agent and market a book.

The writing itself extended over about five years.

But then came the editing. I produced 11 full revisions of the manuscript. The entire editing phase lasted about five years. (If you’re doing the math, there’s some overlap in phases, and so it may seem like even more than 20 years.)

If the iron is hot, be ready to strike

Once I completed a draft that I was happy with—about draft nine—I began looking for an agent. That process went through at least three phases over about 10 years. That’s right—10 long years. I had so many queries out, I invested in an app to keep track of them. During that time, I started work on another novel. I’m still working on it.

There were near-hits with some agents. I even got the entire manuscript read by some well-known New York agents who’d represented famous authors—not a small feat. 

Then I found an agent who liked the book. But—and this was a big but—she rightfully said the manuscript was too long. At that point, it was more than 530 double-spaced pages and about 150,000 words. 

That would have been okay had I been an established writer. But Michael Tevlin from Portland, Oregon? She said she’d reconsider it if I agreed to cut the manuscript—by one-third. 

I knew she was right. So I sat down again with a virtual pair of scissors and began murdering my darlings. Whole scenes and characters vanished. More than 12 months later, I completed revision number 10, cutting it down to about 103,000 words. 

I re-submitted it to the agent and held my breath. The answer came in an email: The agent had taken on another writer whose themes were similar to mine. She was kind and gentle. But she passed. The iron had been hot, but I’d missed my opportunity to strike.

I give up—or maybe not

I nearly gave up the project after that. I put it on hold and began working in earnest on novel number two. But friends and family members kept asking me about Sockeye. I made excuses for a while and lamely suggested that I’d get back to it at some point, only half believing my own words. Plenty of novelists never get their first work (or more) published, I reasoned. I’d given it my best shot, and it didn’t work out. So maybe I just needed to move on.

Then, about two years later (less than a year ago), I read something about small, independent publishers. They’re often a good avenue for unpublished writers, the article said. So I went to the library and got a copy of a directory of indie presses. I found about five publishers who looked promising and sent out queries. Within about a month, I heard back from Black Rose, now my publisher, with a request to see the manuscript. Then came an offer for a contract. I read and re-read the email and was overcome with joy.

Eighteen years, 11 revisions, maybe 100 rejections later, Sockeye is a published novel.

Lessons learned

Sure, I probably should have tried the small-publisher route right away. But you know what they say about hindsight. I never would have had the experience of querying agents had I not done it. It’s a thrill to have a respected agent request sample chapters and read the complete manuscript. I’m grateful to the few agents who sent thoughtful rejection letters explaining why they liked the book while still not taking it on.

Easy for me to say, now that the book has been published, but I’m okay with the way things worked out. I’ve learned some important lessons—like, save the long manuscript for when you’re famous or you have the deluded certainty that you’ve written the world’s next Pulitzer. And I’m sure there will be many more to learn.

But that’s for book number two—the dreaded sophomore effort.