Plot twist! What’s the one thing more excruciating than writing? Real estate

“I want my children to have all the things I couldn’t afford. Then I want to move in with them.”

— re:books

Prepare to have your mind blown!

I finally found the one experience more excruciatingly stressful than trying to get a book published.

It’s not dating, or divorce. It’s…

Real estate. Specifically, house hunting.

On every survey of the most stressful life events — ranked right up there at the top, along with death, sickness, and divorce — is moving to a new home. 

Which is why I had to force myself while house hunting to treat my life as if it were a novel.

I realize pretending I am a protagonist in a novel who starts house hunting may sound as insane as me vacuuming a lawn, but here’s the thing: 

Fiction is often easier to understand than real life. So, by imagining my life was a novel while looking for my dream home, I was able to make sense of something that would have otherwise been too stressful to face. 

And in facing it, I realized that the house hunting process (not to mention the accompanying emotions) is eerily similar to the writing and book publishing process.

The comparisons almost write themselves: literary agents and real estate agents, writing a manuscript and hunting for a home, making an offer and securing a book deal.

I decided that if I could pretend the process of finding that perfect house and then trying to get that house was just a series of “plot twists” that appear in writing a great piece of fiction, it would make finding a place to live less torturous and perhaps understandable, bearable and even enjoyable. (re:bookism #1. You’ll never have any regrets if you move through life pretending you are in a novel and yell out, “Plot twist!” whenever something goes wrong, awry, or unexpected. In other words, your life is not a series of bad choices. Your life is just made up of multiple plot twists.)

I sold my house last summer, with a clause that I could stay here until this November. It seemed like a great idea at the time, until I realized that last week we were already well into September. 

I had so successfully repressed the thought that I had to find a new home and move that I hadn’t even started looking for a place! This makes complete sense. After all, as publisher, editor, author and career journalist and columnist, I do my best work on deadlines.

Novels, like houses, must have all their parts working together smoothly. 

Looking back on the start of my house hunting journey, two weeks ago, the first comparison of real estate and publishing revealed itself. The book agent and the real estate agent. 

Simply put, a literary agent represents the business interests of writers and their written works just like a real estate agent represents their client’s business interests in buying or selling a house. The literary agent helps shape your manuscript or proposal before it gets to an editor, increasing your chances of getting it sold. 

Speaking of book agents and editors, they really do look for the same elements in a manuscript like a real estate agent, some of which include character development (Who is going to live in the home?), the theme (fresh start!), setting (the location where our protagonist will live), and pacing. Much like what an editor looks for in a manuscript, a realtor looks for in a house: What is the author (or buyer’s) vision. What is the competition?

“An agent will help you hone your proposal…” SutherlandHouse Books publisher Ken Whyte outlined here. “Once you have a credible pitch package, he or she will send it out to a list of maybe a dozen editors at reputable publishing houses and follow up in a couple of weeks to see if any are interested enough to make an offer,” he writes.

Meanwhile a real estate agent will either help sell your house or help you find a new one. Or in my protagonist’s case, both. For the sale, my realtor hired a photographer and created her own kind of pitch for my house. Well, it was more like a booklet or brochure which made my 90-plus-year-old house sound like the most luxurious house you would expect to find in Monaco. And with its gorgeous professional photos — that I did not stage —my realtor made my house I was selling look exactly like…

… a fucking fabulous house I would want to live in!  

Immediately my protagonist [me] had seller’s remorse, which if this were the start of a novel creates tension in the protagonist’s life. Did she make the biggest mistake of her life? Has our somewhat spontaneous main character made another “questionable” life decision? 

Our protagonist, after all, finally decided to sell, mostly because sharks realtors and builders kept knocking on her door, ignoring the first sign she had taped to her front door, scribbled with a Sharpie, that read, “Do not knock or ring the doorbell. Baby is sleeping. Not mine. But somewhere a baby is sleeping. Thanks for understanding!” 

And then they ignored my second sign that read, “Do not knock or ring the doorbell. A writer owns this home. Thus, I am not sane. I am a slobbering maniac who has imaginary conversations. Thanks for understanding!”

Much like the early stages of dating, the less interested I seemed in selling, the more interested people seemed in buying. Is our protagonist multi-faceted? Is she more financially savvy than she lets on? Is she playing hard-to-get? Or did her daughter — wait she has a daughter? — leave the nest for college and she realized it’s too much fucking house for just her and her son, who is only there 50% of the time? (Wait, she has a son?) 

Either way, sold!  Now what?

Again, I know pretending that I’m writing a novel, or am IN a novel, as I went house hunting may seem as insane as talking to a mannequin. But finding a fairy-tale home to live in— and let’s be realistic, neither the perfect book nor the perfect house exists. So if you lose your shoe at midnight, especially at our age, you’re probably just shit-faced drunk — is still a lot like finding the perfect publishing house or literary agent for your book.

A novel has a unique power to fulfill our dreams, or break our hearts, much like finding a new house; both are places we should want to return to, to escape or withdraw from the everyday reality, with a myriad of stress — at least until the alarm clock blasts and you must return to the outside world. And reality bites.

And writing a novel, like finding a new house, is something you end up spending a lot of time on, consuming hours of your waking life, and even when you’re not actively looking or working, you’ll be thinking about it, worrying about it, perhaps having conversations with yourself in your head — I’m not crazy for moving. No..wait..maybe I am crazy…one second. I have to talk to myself about this. Hold tight!

Plot Twist! 

Our protagonist is moving out of an area in Toronto called Forest Hill into a new setting — an area called Summerhill — because she obviously loves hills (whether the Forest type or Summer type) and also, because she desperately wants a fresh start.  But how did she find her Summerhill? 

Unless you are a writer looking for a publisher, or a person looking for a home, you may not fully appreciate how truly comparable the torture and agony of publishing a book and finding a home is. I know people who looked for their dream home for seven years, and I know even more authors who spent seven years or more to find a publisher for their book.

When writing a book, like finding a house, both your editor and realtor have must-haves that they consider when working with you; scenes, dialogue, character development, setting, location, structure and pace — be it by moving into a new house or in your novel.

“The mind of a writer can be a truly terrifying thing. Isolated, neurotic, caffeine-addled, crippled by procrastination, consumed by feelings of panic, self-loathing, and soul-crushing inadequacy. And that's on a good day.” Robert De Niro once said, which has become every writer’s go-to quote to try to describe the writing process and the writer’s life.

I can now also say, “The mind of a home buyer is a truly terrifying, isolated, neurotic, caffeine-addicted, crippled by procrastination, consumed by feelings of panic, self-loafing, and soul-crushing inadequacy. And THAT’s on a good day.” (What can I say? I’m quite sane about how insane I am.)

Famous writers have tried to steered aspiring authors away from writing — because they know the pain of writing — akin to stepping on a lego piece barefoot.

“If you have any young friends who aspire to become writers, the second favour you can do them is to present them with copies of The Elements of Style. The first great thing, of course, is to shoot them now, while they are happy.” Dorothy Parker said. She, too, knew how gruelling the process of writing is.

Needless to say, the second most important character in my imaginary novel is my sidekick realtor BFF — one of the best real estate agents in Toronto — who knows me better than I know myself. She has curly brown hair, chocolate brown eyes and has proven that the only drivers worse and more aggressive than Uber Eats drivers are real estate agents. (See? It's these little details that can keep a character compelling.)

If you’re writing a novel the setting is more than mere background. The setting influences the characters and plot. Which drives the story. (Unlike looking for houses, where my crazy AF driver realtor is driving both literally and figuratively to find me a roof over my head.)

Every time the realtor in this not-so imaginary novel I was imagining drove the protagonist around town to look at houses, the protagonist would end up thinking, “There’s a 50/50 chance I’m going to show up to this showing alive, so I won’t get my hopes up,” while the protagonist was also screaming, “You just made a fucking U-Turn in the middle of a one-way street! Just wake me up when, and if, we get there,” while her realtor BFF would be screaming at the same time to other drivers, “Can’t you fucking move up? Why are drivers such assholes?” 

And we would burst into laughter. And then pick up Greek Salads from United Bakers Dairy. 

It isn’t the worst plot in the world — two best friends embarking on finding the perfect house; one who knows what she’s doing, and the other one (me) — kind of like a novel featuring a road trip, one of us Thelma and the other Louise. (At one point in my frustrations in driving to see yet another house, I did scream, “Just find a cliff and drive us off it already!”

One day, after looking at eight different places, I was so disillusioned walking through a giant penthouse that was so massive I could easily lose a kid or two in there — bonus! — but was so entirely outdated, I told her that if she didn't get me out of there in the next 30 seconds, I would jump off the wrap-around balcony, taking the disgusting light blue carpet and flowery drapes with me like skydiving without a parachute.

Another day looking at houses, just like most if not all of my writing days, I was so mentally and physically drained, that I slept for 22 hours straight. I missed an ENTIRE day. 

Who misses an entire day sleeping? Not just disillusioned house hunters but writers too. Studies have shown that writers need to nap more often than non-writers because of the emotional toll writing (or looking for a house) takes. You can read about my Ode to Naps here.

I was so exhausted looking for a place, that I would say to my realtor in a house, “Where is that thingy? You know! That thingy!” 

To which the Louise to my Thelma or the Thelma to my Louise would respond, “Are you talking about the washer and dryer?” To which I would respond, “No, that other thingy that you use after you take a shower,” to which she responded, "You mean the towel warmers,” to which I would respond, “Yes! That thingy!”

(Let’s just say this is the first draft of my imaginary novel, so the dialogue needs to be tweaked, even though it is pretty true to reality.)

And then, just when I was about to give up — here's where you cheer the protagonist on! —decided that my character should ask if there were any listings for submarines while also admitting to my realtor, “I know he’s a bit odd, but I think I'd rather go live with Elon Musk on a space station than look at any more houses.”

Then…

Plot Twist! We found the Summerhill house! 

Oh, how I loved everything about this house, walking around open-mouthed in astonishment. But, oh no. Like getting a second draft back from an editor, I needed to set up a second showing. 

Like hearing back from an agent who wants to represent you, this part is a mixture of both excitement and nerve-wracking. You start to see all the pieces of the novel coming together. Much like a book proposal, or finished manuscript, hopefully an agent or editor, or in this case a realtor, the protagonist still needed the offer to be accepted.

Much like an agent sends out book proposals for authors and negotiates contracts, your realtor puts in your offer for a place to live. And then you wait (for your offer) to be accepted or rejected.

“Writers aren't people exactly,” F. Scott Fitzgerald said. “Or, if they’re any good, they're a whole lot of people trying so hard to be one person.” (You might want to leave something like this out if you’re leasing)

Now seems like a good time to let you know that almost every single female writer I know prays for a “room of her own” to write, in the words of Virginia Woolf, but it’s not exactly true. The exact quote is “A woman must have money and a room of her own.”

For many writers, it seems you can have a room of your own, but to actually buy a house in Toronto you also need money. (Fun Tidbit? In the fall of 2017, Virginia Woolf’s refurbished home, where the Woolfs lived from 1915-1924 was on the market for 4.4 million (pounds). It sold in 2019 for 2.95 million pounds.  As of last month it was up for sale again.)

But back to comparisons. If your offer is accepted - it is like your book has been green-lighted and shit moves quickly!

And much like getting your first book deal, you have a nanosecond to celebrate if someone accepts your offer for a house, like trying to sell a book idea in a proposal, you need your proposal to include documents that help show you can sell the book, just like when someone accepts your offer on a house and you have 48 hours to make sure you have all the documents in order to not lose your dream house, which includes things like dealing with your bank and the requisite proof of income, credit checks, bank stubs, every single address I — my protagonist — lived at since I was 17, references, while madly Docusigning — all this before even hiring a mover. (Can someone remind me to book a mover?)

My biggest tip to freelancers who don't get regular pay stubs is to line up references, your credit score and your blood type, to be on the safe side. (Not going to lie. Where’s the confetti? Discovering my credit score is VERY GOOD felt like a huge compliment, like scoring a Big Name Celebrity to blurb the cover of your book. (Could you imagine seeing a blurb on a cover: “Very good!” — Credit Check)

And, like the Big Houses who have board meetings where numerous people decide on whether your book is sellable or not, the two other “characters” in my imaginary novel also needed to approve of this decision risk.

Much like different book genres — romance, memoirs, mysteries, thrillers, rom-coms — houses are subjective too. If my son, who spends 50 percent of the time with me, didn't like it? — Wait? The protagonist is a single mother? What happened there? — I would have had a decision to make. (I would not have taken it. This is “conflict" for editors reading books.) 

Luckily, my son’s eyes lit up as if I had just handed him an iTunes gift card. 

The dialogue — which most authors agree is the hardest to get right so many shy away from it — went like this:

Me: Do you love this place?

10 year-old kid: It’s SO big!

Me: It’s just a different layout.

10 year-old kid: It has four floors!

Me: Awesome, right? You can have an entire floor to yourself. How cool!

10 year-old kid: I can put a basketball net in the basement!

Me: Actually, you could!

10 year-old kid: You can walk right into the underground garage from the house! But what happens when you forget something upstairs? Dude, you forget like five things every time before we get into the car.

Me: Don’t call me Dude. I’m your mother. And my ass is going to look great after running up and down these stairs!

10 year-old kid: You just said 'ass.'

If My Guy didn’t approve — wait, there’s a love interest? — I probably wouldn’t have taken it either. I trust My Guy as he happens to have excellent taste, has done this moving house thing a few times and seems to have somewhat of a grasp on this adulting thing. So, if either my son or My GUY said Nay, I would have passed.

Which would have been really disappointing; like writing an entire manuscript only to scrap it. Or have it rejected from every single publisher.

All’s well that ends well.  Are you fucking kidding me? The story is just developing. I still have to move, get used to my new setting, location and the characters around me!

Plus, my protagonist isn’t as scared as getting edits back for her book as she is having to “edit” the house she has lived in for more than a decade. 

Whereas the thought of having an editor suggest I take a line or a paragraph out of any of my books never really unnerved me, the thought of me having to “edit” my house down from approximately a lot of square feet to approximately half of the square feet would be like asking an author to, well, basically chop their novel by half. Both make me feel extremely vulnerable.

Except, instead of editing or revising, I have sticky notes: what goes in storage, what is coming with, and what is being donated to charities.

But even more terrifying than editing down my word count couches? Editing my wardrobe! 

I need to imagine my upcoming move as scenes or chapters unfolding, or re-writing a second draft, as some professional editor organizer helps me “edit” my entire wardrobe, shoes and handbags which — give me a minute - I’m hyperventilating — admittedly makes me want to grab a handful of Ativan and eat them like Skittles, just like an editor wielding track change suggestions without any mercy on the first draft of a manuscript. 

Beginnings, middles, and ends, no matter how they are shuffled, are the ways in which we organize our lives; this seems to be true for both real estate and writing.

Writers want to believe that readers are sophisticated enough to understand that writing fiction and life are two very different things. But the beauty of writing fiction is that if something isn’t working, it can be reinvented or revisited, so that it does. 

In this new house, I shall live happily ever after.

What if my new house doesn’t turn out to be perfect? Because I am a writer, I can always rely on yelling out, “Plot twist!” 

Or, as John Irving once said, “Half my life are acts of revisions,” and we will leave the sold sign at that. 

Until next time,

Flip your hair and flip the page (And if you see me walking around my new “setting” come October, please say ‘Hi!”)