For many years, my average annual output—creatively speaking—was one novel per year. I would speed-write a first draft more or less entirely in the month of November, let is sit for a month, pick at it in the new year, and by the spring, throw it out to some literary agents and hope for the best. I’d then take the summer and early autumn off, as I tackled the busy season at my day job, and come October, would be puzzling together a new idea to start the whole process over again.
Obviously, none of these books sold. None of these books landed me an agent. With hindsight and more projects under my belt, I can pinpoint exactly why for each one, but the broad strokes were both my problem (third act plot holes I never bothered to fix) and the market’s (“pirates don’t sell” is a line that’s been emblazoned in my brain for close to a decade).
But all of these books were completed, insofar as I was either happy with where I’d left them, or I’d queried them to such a murderous death that there was no point reopening their wounds to check for internal bleeding.
All except one. My white whale. First started in 2022, born from a night spent in an odd little speakeasy in Florence earlier that same year. Anyone who has spent any amount of time with me in the four years since will have heard about this project. My beloved Italian criminals project. Set in the 1960s. Something about a flood and a Botticelli painting.
Don’t ask which Botticelli painting. It started off as Primavera, despite my mother’s ardent protests that it was definitely too big. I countered that they could roll it up, until I returned to the scene of the fictional crime and discovered it was on four wooden panels.
So, Primavera was out.
Over the years to follow, I would slowly case every Botticelli painting in the city. I can tell you where they all are now and where they all were in 1966—as well as the details of one exquisite piece that has been in private collection for decades, which has been thrown in and out as a red herring over the various drafts.
The problem with this project is the plot has never fully made sense. Not once. Not ever. But I am incapable of giving up on it, of relegating it to a forgotten draft and moving on.
Partly, because I don’t do that. I have never done that. And partly, because I love the world too much. I love the characters too much. Nico Valentino is as much a real person to me as my own brother. I can’t just leave him to rot.
So, the Italian criminal project remains, technically, in progress. Every now and again, I pull it out and poke at it a little. I wander the streets of Florence on Google Maps, or in person when I can swing the excuse of another research trip (I have been to Florence five times since that initial visit). I come up with more elaborate ways to solve the plot problem, and then simpler ones when those don’t work.
I don’t know if this book will ever be finished—or maybe it’s better to say, I don’t know how it will be.
But it was a one-off. I’ve written another book since, and finished it. No problems. I’ve written a screenplay since—all good.
This past spring, I started work on my second screenplay. I powered through the first draft with confidence. I sent it to a few friends I trust to read for me. I quickly realised I had capital P, Plot Problems.
But that was okay. I’d fix them. I always did.
Second draft. Huh. Somehow I’d made the problems worse. No need to worry, though—I was taking the project with me to my writers’ residency, and would have a mentor to help muddle it through with me.
Earlier this month, I finished the third draft. Something still wasn’t working. I was starting to sweat. It couldn’t be, could it? Not another one.
A white whale.
At their core, I fear these white whales might be some of my greatest work. The characters of my Italian criminal book are some of the most well-rounded, fully developed people I’ve ever crafted. This screenplay is a twisting exploration of guilt and trauma and war and cults—it’s overly complicated and it needs to be, I think, but I have yet to find the way through it that does all of that complication justice.
My script mentor is more optimistic about it than I am. I pitched a new approach, a change to the perspective that would affect the through line and ending and maybe bring it all together in a way that it has been missing. I’m excited about this alternate path through. So is she.
But the fear lingers. Because where she sees opportunity, I still see a white whale.
I see it because I’ve written a third screenplay since—underdeveloped, but functioning. Because I’ve crafted a series idea. Because I know the ideas keep coming and the words keep flowing, but the white whales rage on through the uncharted seas.
In contrast to the turmoil this white whale is causing me, is a project that is blooming before my eyes. We’re heading into pre-production for the proof-of-concept for my first feature screenplay, and with each new piece we secure—cast, location, design—I am overwhelmed by a surge of both excitement and pride.
The point of the piece is to demonstrate my voice as a writer and as I watch it come together, I see… Myself, reflected back at me. I see all the funny little ideas I’ve collected over the years, the way I think, the way I write, culminating in a very real, very tangible piece of work.
Through the highs and lows of this work, I’ve been ever more conscious of the people in my life who keep me grounded and sane, and laughing when I need to the most. Those around me here in Toronto, and those on the receiving end of my podcast-length voice notes as I detail some new nonsense from the week.
These are precious days, I think—memories I will cherish. A time in my life I suspect I will look back on and say: if it weren’t for that time…
And what a privilege to consider all that is left to come.
All my love,
Suzey
On Rotation
📺 Schitt’s Creek (CBC) My Netflix watchlist hates to see me coming as I start a six-season rewatch of this glorious comedy instead of tackling anything on there. I don’t think I have a lot of headspace for television right now, as I juggle the worlds of two feature films, a series pilot, and a novel—sometimes, comfort is key. And Schitt’s Creek is the queen of comfort watching.
🍿 You Can See Everything ⭐️ ⭐️ ⭐️ ⭐️ ⭐️ Predictable, I know—everyone is talking about this movie. But it reminded me of a far lesser known documentary that I saw a number of years ago, but which had a similar amount of “wait, what?!” moments as this—Cold Case Hammarskjöld (2019). If I remember correctly, the introduction at the film festival screening went something along the lines of: “there is nothing I can say to prepare for you this. Buckle up.” If you can find it, I’d highly recommend.
🎵 It’s been a steady rotation of midcentury classics over here as I prep for my 1950s set proof-of-concept shoot next month. Etta James, Elvis Presley, Billie Holiday… Our composer is working on something original for our piece and I am beyond excited to hear what he comes up with.