Perspective

Seeing What’s Missing

Do you know someone who seems to have an eye for what isn’t there? Someone who can look at a jigsaw puzzle and see where a piece will fit, examine a room and notice where something is out of place, listen to you and discern what you’re not saying?

Perhaps this person comes across as a pessimist, someone who sees the glass as half full, solutions as incomplete, themselves as a work in progress. Or they might seem excessively curious, always asking a lot of questions, as if they were seeking to fill the gaps in their own minds.

If you know such a person—or if you are one—you know that having an eye for what isn’t there can be annoying. When you can’t help noticing what’s missing, you may have to work a little harder to avoid driving yourself and everyone else crazy.

Or, you can find an occupation where these natural tendencies, tempered by compassion, work in your favor.

A good book coach needs to be able to see what a writer has missed. Not so much missing commas (that will come later, during the proofreading stage), but missing information, the kind of stuff readers need to know to make sense of the story. What’s not on the page? Where are there holes in the logic? What has the writer skipped over or left out, because they’ve been unconsciously filling in the blanks with their own knowledge? Where could they add a piece to form a complete picture?

By asking insightful questions, a good coach can help a writer strengthen the story they’re telling. But there’s a trick to it. If, as a book coach, I only point out the holes, the negative spaces, the problems to be solved, I’m missing what matters most: the writer. When I’m faced with a set of pages to be reviewed, I need to remind myself there’s a person behind them.

When I was new to book coaching, preparing my first round of feedback on an early draft of a manuscript, I wasn’t sure how much would be enough. I could see errors in writing mechanics, confusing jumps in the story, places where the meaning wasn’t clear. I wanted to be thorough, so . . . I marked everything, filling the pages with edits and comments. The writer, of course, was overwhelmed by so much feedback, most of it negative. She felt like I’d put her through a shredder, and I had, though it hadn’t been intentional.

Fortunately, she knew I was a beginner and was willing to be patient with me. She accepted my profuse apologies and endured my mistakes as I tried to figure out how to tailor my weekly feedback so it would be more humane and more helpful. What did it matter if I was “right,” if what I was telling her wasn’t helping her to move forward?

It’s not especially hard to see areas in need of improvement when you’re looking at an early draft of someone else’s manuscript, but that’s nothing to feel smug about. I’ve received feedback from a coach on my own writing (thanks, Sarahlyn!), and I understand how easy (and embarrassing!) it can be to overlook what seems obvious in hindsight. A book coach who feels superior about being able to see what their writers have missed is in the wrong business.

An effective coach doesn’t use her insights to target weaknesses, as if she were launching an attack. Our role is to facilitate the act of creation, building up instead of tearing down. That’s what makes us coaches instead of critics. If we cannot feel compassion for the writers we work with, sense when they are in need of encouragement or a few kind words, we cannot do our jobs well.

Birthing a Story

In I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, Maya Angelou writes, “There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” As difficult as it is to get a story out of the mind and fully developed on the page, it can feel even worse to keep that story locked inside. Like a baby waiting to be born, a story waiting to be told won’t let you forget it’s there.

Being a book coach has helped me to appreciate exactly how much work is involved in writing, revising, publishing and marketing a book. It’s incredibly time-consuming (leaving you with less time for anything else) and emotionally taxing. You have to take risks, confront your fears, deal with discomfort, and battle with self-doubt.

Though it was many years ago, I still remember how it felt to be in the late stages of labor with my youngest child. I had limited access to pain medications because I’d opted for a natural home birth, and my midwife was coaxing me to get on the birthing stool so I could push more effectively.

I curled into myself and shook my head back and forth, muttering “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.” Birthing my child, which had seemed like a reasonable and obvious thing to do only hours before, felt absolutely impossible now. It didn’t matter that I was already an experienced mother, having given birth to two other children prior to this. Maybe I had forgotten what those births had been like, or maybe it was because this time I was at home and not in a hospital. Whatever the reason, this time felt too hard, too painful, too damn overwhelming. I was scared and hurting and fighting what, deep down, I knew had to happen.

My midwife wasn’t persuaded by my refusal to proceed. She’d attended hundreds of births, and a laboring mother’s fear and mounting panic were nothing new to her. Her solution was a tough love approach. She planted herself in front of me, gently took my face in her hands, and said, “Look at me. Look. At. Me.” Her voice was firm but not harsh. I went from looking for an exit to looking into her eyes and willing myself to follow her lead.

“You can do this,” she said. “Just breathe.” I did as she instructed and was able to calm down slightly. She helped me move to the birthing stool, then focused my attention on the baby’s head, which was already crowning. I hadn’t realized how close I was to holding my child in my arms. All I needed was one more push.

A few minutes later, I gave birth to a healthy, nine-and-a-half pound baby boy, my first and only son. I wept with relief and joy. Though my midwife gave me all the credit for a successful delivery, I felt I could not have done it without her.

My newborn baby

No wonder writers refer to their manuscripts as their “babies.” As a coach, I sometimes feel like a midwife, coaxing a writer to stay on track, offering “tough love” feedback and encouragement as needed.

If you’ve ever wondered why anyone would put themselves through so much pain and suffering just to tell a story, here’s one possible explanation: when you’ve finished with all that hard work, and you’re finally holding your creation in your arms, there’s no better feeling in the world.

Every Voice Matters

“Why should I read this?” is a question I imagine you might be asking yourself right now. It’s a good question, one I tend to ask myself whenever I’m looking for a new book or browsing through the blogosphere. “What can this person add to the conversation that hasn’t been said or written before now?”

Lola, looking skeptical

I have two responses for you:

1. Perspective

While I’m not the only person qualified to coach writers, I am the only Kemlo from a small, rural town in New Hampshire. My expertise is not unique—there are others with a mastery of the English language who can offer solid advice on how to write and publish a marketable book—but my perspective is entirely my own. The lens through which I see everything depends upon thousands of specific details related to where I was born, how I was raised and by whom, where I have lived and traveled, who I have met along the way, and how all of those things have affected me. My thinking has been shaped by over fifty years of living, learning and striving to understand why people do what they do.

I’m sure something similar could be said about you: you’ve lived a life uniquely your own, and now you’ve got stories to tell. Maybe there’s just one you’d like to share with the world—maybe there are hundreds!

For example, I was a precocious kid who grew up loving books and writing, but one book that influenced me more than any other was All Creatures Great and Small by James Herriot. I fantasized about becoming a country vet and spent most of my young life working toward an education in veterinary medicine. Though I tended to have an aptitude for the humanities, the pre-med program at Brandeis University taught me to think like a scientist. I learned to formulate meaningful questions, track down answers, and test hypotheses.

So why am I a book coach now and not a veterinarian? That’s a long story about falling in love, refusing to kill for science, surviving a terrifying car crash, moving to the middle of nowhere, re-evaluating priorities, becoming a mother of three, forming a community, reuniting with biological kin, redefining the meaning of family, pursuing an alternative lifestyle as a home educator, returning to graduate school (and blogging about it), and experiencing a variety of happy coincidences. All of which helps to make my point: When I write about what it’s like to work with a book coach, I try to offer a perspective on writing and coaching that reflects who I am and what I’ve been through.

I ask the writers I work with to do the same: infuse your stories with your unique voice and nuanced perspective. Offer the world a part of yourself.

2. Conversation

Every book (and blog post) joins a conversation already in progress, and the musings I offer here are no exception.  I intend to add to a larger discussion about why people write books, what makes their stories and ideas interesting, what tends to get in the way, and how book coaches fit into the picture.

No two perspectives exactly alike

As a writer of fiction or nonfiction, you’ll probably discover (if you haven’t already) published books that have something in common with yours. It might be the setting or the topic or the characters. It might be the message or the theme or the overall concept. Whatever the similarities, the first time you see another book that looks like a very close cousin to the one you’ve been planning to write (or, worse, have already written!), you may feel despair. How can you write your book, your story, when someone else (damn them!) has already written it?

Here’s how: you’ll infuse your writing and story with your own voice and point-of-view. You’ll dig deep and show readers not only the facts but what those facts mean, and why they matter to you, based on your life experiences and hard-won knowledge.

Likewise, the stories I post here will reflect my life as a book coach, showing you not only what I do but also why I believe this work is so worthwhile. That’s what I plan to add to the conversation, and you’re welcome to join in.