Revision Transmission Two

revising a whole-ass book

I am writing you from my desk, where I have in earnest begun indexing my book. I call it indexing because I use index cards. It’s really not fancy.

These little cards are marked with washi tape, which helps me sense their order. Each chapter is marked on the top left corner, and each scene/moment is marked on the bottom left corner. The chapter cards are stamped and named with the chapter title.

I am forcing myself to break down each small moment, each encapsulated moment inside two transitions, onto one card. This is a lot of work, but it’s helping me understand where I am spending my time in the narrative space of the book, where I may be repeating myself, and the shape of the narrative.

I wish I’d done this years ago, but honestly I have been under tight deadlines with each revision, and this is the first time I wasn’t working with a tight turnaround. My editor has told me, “It’s important to make this book the best it can be.” I am grateful for that, though I do wish it had been the vibe much earlier on, as I’ve felt very rushed throughout this process. But part of that was my own wanting to get this book out there, to get it done. I no longer feel that urgency (though of course I don’t want it to take forever. Instead, I feel very committed to this process of taking it slow and making it really f*cking good.

If you don’t know, this book, with the working title HOTSHOT, is about my years as a wildland firefighter and hotshot. I worked as a firefighter from the age of nineteen up until I was thirty, with four years taken off in between. When I started fighting fire I was a drug addict and alcoholic. I was deeply sick with bulimia (and would stay sick for nearly two more decades). A friend suggested I try working on a contract firefighting crew out of Springfield, Oregon, because I was struggling to hold down any other job and had dropped out of community college.

I had no idea how much I would come to love being a firefighter. Or how painful it would be working as a minority in a male-dominated über macho field.

I wrote the proposal for this book while working 50 hours a week as a nanny in Seattle. I was bopping between shared Airbnb’s and sublets, feeling totally untethered after a trip to Asia, where I’d lived in the jungle with a Gurung family in Nepal, had my wallet and passport stolen in Kathmandu the day after finishing a Vipassana retreat in Pokhara, and tried to continue my planned trip (already precariously funded on credit) to Southeast Asia. I got stuck in Hanoi, rented a shared apartment there, and contemplated staying and teaching English. But neither my bank nor my credit card companies would send me new cards, so I went home brokenhearted.

Me on my last day in the jungle after nearly a month, eating Amma’s incredible roti and drinking my last chai with water buffalo milk. I was happy.

I was lucky that I worked with two of the best families I’ve ever nannied for. Taking care of the two sweet babies was a true highlight— I loved it. But I held onto my dream of writing an amazing proposal and selling my book, and woke up at 5am every morning in order to make it to the coffee shop near my nanny job at 6am on the dot. There, I got coffee and worked for two hours before going to work at 8am.

the cutest dog outside of Cafe Vita in Queen Anne, where I often spent my early morning writing before my work day.

I am so lucky and grateful that my editor at Grove Press bought my proposal.

It wasn’t an easy sell: a complicated blended narrative that is both memoir and reported histories about of fire suppression, fire adapted ecosystems, and Indigenous fire in the United States. It was bought in a pre-empt, which means I’ll never know if other editors beyond the five my agent and I sent my proposal (two of whom had already turned it down) would have wanted it.

There were many things I wish I’d done differently after selling my book. I wish I’d turned down the Fulbright ETA I was offered in the Czech Republic (that I eventually ended up quitting early, feeling too much pressure about my one year deadline for a first draft), I wish I’d spent my advance differently, I wish I’d done more field research. In a way, the proposal was for a book that was, at the time, beyond my abilities. I was not a reporter and I’d never researched a huge project. But over the course of writing the book I’ve learned to report and research, and now those skills serve me in my writing every day.

I’m also glad I did things the way I did. I met many wonderful people, and I have, by accident, had years to deeply research this book. I still wish I had more money so I could afford more field research— I applied to several nonfiction book awards more than once, and was turned down for them each time.

Me, many years ago, digging in the dirt and ash with a Pulaski and unknowingly ruining my lower back (bend your knees, bend your knees!!!).

I wish I’d applied this year to the book awards, but I had no idea how fast or slow this process was going to move. So much of it is dependent on my editor, and sometimes communication hasn’t been totally transparent. A mentor encouraged me to apply for the Whiting Nonfiction Book Award this spring and I didn’t, only because my editor had predicted an earlier publication date, which is now more flexible and looking like it’s going to be pushed back again.

Wishing for things to have been different is a sign that I have learned from the process.

So, here I am, over four years since I’ve sold the book, writing on my little index cards and finally outlining this book in a way that works for my neurodivergent brain. I lied earlier when I said I hadn’t outlined it. I did. But I can’t put an outline on my computer. I need to be able to hold and see it. So, I finally figured that out.

This is my last revision. Or my second to last revision. And this morning I’m going to index as much as I can, so I can open the feedback I finally received from my editor and take into account what she has to say. Over the past couple months I’ve also received feedback from several beta readers, so I’m holding a lot of impressions in my mind.

In August, I move into a new apartment (still here in Tallahassee) which may be my home for the next four years. Even though I’ve moved twice in the past year I feel more stable than I have since I lived in Syracuse over five years ago. The stability, I must say, is very good for my writing.

a tiny, tiny orchid which only blooms after fire.

Structure and routine is good for my brain. I grew up in chaos. My entire life I’ve struggled and fought with myself to find a sense of routine and structure. A sense of: what do I need? Slowly I’m finding it. Being diagnosed with ADHD helped me understand myself more, and a few weeks ago I was also diagnosed with autism. Because of this diagnosis I’m seeing a new therapist who’s helping me find the kind of routine containers I need.

In a little over a month I turn 43 years-old.

There is no part of me who says: you need to figure it all out. There used to be. But now I hope I never fully figure things out, because although it’s harder to rest in the unknown, in the liminal, it’s also a more creative space. A mutable space. I’d be deluding myself if I were to think I could ever figure it all out.

If I reframe it into a quest to more deeply understand myself, to more expansively and confidently express myself and my current and past experiences, that feels much better. That’s doable. That’s an infinite way of being in the world. It also allows space for being with what is, in this moment, instead of trying to get to some far off destination.

The point of this book isn’t to get anywhere, for me, although I did see it like that sometimes.

Writing this book is not about what awaits me when I publish it.

It’s about the process of writing it. Being with myself as I struggle and learn. Being my own mentor and caretaker.

Learning.

Revising, again and again.

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Share your experiences with me in the comments!