when your book wants you dead
when your book wants you dead
on drafting a dark and drowning tide
welcome to the ursprung, the section of my newsletter where I write short essays about how my adult debut, a dark and drowning tide, came to be. if you’re only interested in book updates, you can unsubscribe from all sections except “allison saft” here.
It is March 2020—exactly one year before my debut novel is scheduled to release—and I am working at Stanford University. On the week my six-month employment contract ends, the university shuts down and so does the world. I decide that this is as good a time as any to become a full-time writer.
In April, I turn in what is then called Salt Sulfur Silver (and later Salt Sulfur Gunpowder and then eventually A Far Wilder Magic, because the sales team does not think “gun” is a good word to have on the cover of a young adult novel), many months before it is technically due. I see no reason to hold onto it. I had a vision, and I executed it. A Far Wilder Magic emerged like Aphrodite from the sea: fully formed. The book was written romantically, even luxuriously: always at night, always in bed, always by the glow of a salt lamp. More importantly, it was written before any early copies of Down Comes the Night circulated. I did not know any of the things, positive or negative, people tend to say about my work.
In July, I decide it is time to work on YA #3. I bring two ideas to my agents: “rival lawyers” and “fantasy naturalist.” My agents do not love either of these ideas, and so, I decide to combine them. In October, I submit an outline1 of what will eventually become A Dark and Drowning Tide. It takes place on an island, where Lorelei (who is the one with white hair in this draft) and the rest of the expedition crew are stranded. There are many investigative sequences, and the mystery is solved by unraveling who is lying and other such Sherlockian deductions. My agents (lovingly) inform me that I have written a game of Clue—and an adult novel. I go back to the drawing board.
Reviews for Down Comes the Night roll in, and I quickly learn what people dislike about my writing. Isolation grinds on. Self-doubt creeps in. I turn in another outline and then another. Is this good? What about now? By the third attempt, I am convinced I have never known how to write a book, or how to make a decision about the direction of a project. Creative vision has become secondary to commercial viability. My agents suggest I try writing the first draft instead of bashing my head repeatedly against a wall. I decide that this is a problem for later. I am too busy promoting my debut and hoping against hope that it will be a breakout hit. The 2020 debuts have been hit hard. But by March, surely, things will be better.
It is March 2, 2021, the day Down Comes the Night publishes. That afternoon, I sign and personalize books in the parking garage connected to my local independent bookstore. That evening, I have my launch event on Instagram Live. My dreams have come true, apparently. What do you do when you have what you wanted? What I did was fall into a deep hole.
I tell myself I need to stay in the game. There is no time for breaks. And so, I do what I typically do when preparing to draft a book: create a Pinterest board; list magical cookies2; and pin down the protagonist’s character arc.3 On March 23, I begin drafting A Dark and Drowning Tide. By April 21, it is “finished” at 35,000 words long. I hate everything that I’ve written. Worse, I’m ashamed of what I have written. It’s completely lifeless, and the process was joyless. But I needed to get the plot down, in the simplest way possible. I’ve got to wrap my head around something concrete to know if I have anything at all.
In June, I am in Ithaca and writing my short story for The Gathering Dark, when I see that the Edelweiss catalog for Winter 2022’s titles has gone live. When I compare the announced print run of A Far Wilder Magic to Down Comes the Night’s, I understand that I have underperformed my publisher’s expectations. Then and there, something within me breaks and solidifies all at once. My debut has disappointed, so I cannot count on my publisher’s support. I cannot get A Dark and Drowning Tide right, and I cannot trust my creative instincts anymore. I will never write anything like this thing I have in front of me—this thing that will soon be behind me. Even if it kills me, I will do everything in my power to give A Far Wilder Magic a chance to succeed.
In September, I turn in the “real” first draft of A Dark and Drowning Tide. I send a very apologetic email to my agents with this picture attached.
No one in the entire world has read this book, because the thought of getting notes that might contradict my agents’ is too daunting. I still do not know what I want the book to be. How can I decide which notes to keep or discard? Once I have my agents’ feedback, I still do not know what I want the book to be or why, exactly, I find it so confronting. I am so lost. I am so desperate for someone to fix it for me. Surely, someone will be able to tell me exactly what I should do. Surely, someone has the magic words to end my suffering. I send my draft to no fewer than 10 people—to anyone who would agree to read it. I have to redact the sex scene because I am so embarrassed of how emotionless and unearned I perceive the romance to be. I reach a breaking point. I am so sad and listless and lonely. I have tried being a full-time writer, and I have absolutely nothing to show for it. With all this time, I can’t manage to produce even one decent book. So I take a 9-5 job to take some of the financial pressure off (and to remember how to speak to normal people who don’t know what a Kirkus review even is).
Reader feedback trickles in. The notes I receive range from gentle and encouraging to absolutely excoriating. One edit letter devastates me so deeply I cannot work on the revision for weeks, because it is a confirmation of everything I was afraid of: that I have failed to live up the potential of my previous work. Another friend cannot finish it and tells me as much, because her attention span is shot and there are too many characters. At this point, the book feels completely unsalvageable. But I have sunk so much time and energy into it, it would hurt far worse to cut my losses. So I gut it and try again.
In February 2022, as I spiral into madness promoting A Far Wilder Magic on top of a demanding day job, I send my revised next draft to to even more people. The feedback this time is positive and the changes are minor, although I don’t believe a word of praise. I implement their suggestions and in March, I return to my agents with a book that has been completely rewritten twice since they read it last. They say their notes are minor this time around, and we can go on submission in April. I do not feel at all confident in the book, but what else can I do? I have no objectivity anymore. I have no other revision ideas. I have exhausted my critique partners with a whole year of angst. And thanks to my efforts on A Far Wilder Magic, I have momentum. Besides, I trust my agents’ taste. So, out it goes.
In June 2022, the book sells to Del Rey, and I am equal parts shocked and thrilled. While suffering can never be redeemed, still: this is something good. The best thing: I don’t look at A Dark and Drowning Tide again until February 2023. Nearly a year away from the book (during which I write A Fragile Enchantment, which is a dream to draft) is perhaps the greatest gift I’ve ever received, because when I return to it, I can see it clearly. And by the time I finish the first developmental edit, I think I almost love the book. Almost.
It is August 2024, and I have been tagged in many reviews that say A Dark and Drowning Tide is my best work yet. At first, I found this very hard to believe, given what this stupid book has put me through. Now, I’m just incredibly grateful every time I hear it. I’m proudest of this book because its existence was so hard-won. It was so far outside my comfort zone in so many ways, and that pressure was compounded by it coming to me in the strangest—if not the most difficult—period of my life.
When I finished the first draft of this essay, I decided it would be best to forget about it and never, ever publish it. It’s kind of a bummer, and considering I’m trying to persuade you to read this book, I worried that describing its miserable and prolonged birth might color your perception of its quality. But the good people on Instagram wanted to hear a “sometimes a book is really hard to write, and it never really gets easier” story.
If you’re currently struggling through a draft of any sort, this one’s for you. If I can offer you one assurance, it’s this: the pain won’t bleed through. It doesn’t set the tone for the next book you write, and it won’t impact the reader’s experience. Writing A Dark and Drowning Tide has made me deeply skeptical of writing advice along the lines of “if you’re bored writing it, people will be bored reading it.” I just don’t think the emotional state you’re in will transmit subliminally through the text. Writing is work, and sometimes work is tedious. Sometimes it is also sanity-destroying :) Most likely, no one can tell which scenes came easy and which ones were difficult. So there you have it: the writing process for A Dark and Drowning Tide, the book that wanted me dead for literal years. I won in the end!!
If you’ve preordered the book (or plan to): THANK YOU. It goes such a long way, especially since this is my debut in a new age category and I am untested in this space. Secondly, as a reminder, the preorder campaign is live! I coped with my revision woes mostly by commissioning art, which is why I have so many beautiful things to send you. And if you preorder from Kepler’s, you’ll get two exclusive prints in addition to everything below.
I use a four-act structure loosely based on Save the Cat and an outline template from Amanda Foody. Check out her explanation of her method here!
A concept from Susan Dennard, who defines them as “those scenes that you are most excited to write. You know the ones I mean. Maybe they were the first spark of inspiration for the entire novel, or maybe they're just the epic highlights you can't wait to get to.” You can read more here. Here is a selection of non-spoilery cookies that made it onto my list! Almost everything made it into the final.
An attempt at a brooding, hardened, and horrible narrator who will do anything to get what she wants
A different shade of sunshine/grump, with a bit of edge to the romance - an exploration of real hatred forged not only through broader class relations but also through years of intimately knowing someone
Sylvia being oblivious and sometime pathetic
Lorelei threatening and outwitting her opponents
Luxuriously sarcastic natural history segments
Save Sylvia from drowning??
“How can you be so smart and stupid?”
Fantastical swimming scenes
I usually like to figure out a few things about a character: what is the lie they believe about themselves or the world? what is the “ghost” / the event that caused them to believe this lie? what do they want? what do they need to learn to overcome the lie? Here is the worksheet I filled out in February 2021. It’s pretty much accurate to the final draft!
What does my character want?
To succeed in the expedition, which will earn the king’s protection
What is at stake if they don't get it?
Her freedom, her safety
What does my character actually need?
Meaningful connection with another person (Sylvia)
What is their flaw?
Mean and prickly, quick to push others away, single-mindedly independent
What is my theme/moral message? What does the character learn at the end of the book?
That you don’t have to live just for the dead, or surround yourself with ghosts.
How do they show they've made the right (comedy) or wrong (tragedy) choice at the end?
To accept help, to let someone else in, rather than ruthlessly doing whatever it takes
this was so affirming to read, especially to see someone else also doubt the old advice that if you're bored writing it your reader will be bored reading it. work is work, and it IS hard sometimes! really appreciate you sharing this.
"the pain won’t bleed through. It doesn’t set the tone for the next book you write, and it won’t impact the reader’s experience." So reassuring. thanks for sharing this, Allison! <3