If you’re a fan of Cosmos or just an astronomy buff in general, then you’ve surely heard of the Drake Equation. Formulated in 1961 by Dr. Frank Drake, duly pictured here, it’s a mathematical equation designed to predict the number of possible extra-terrestrial civilizations out there. It’s fairly straightforward. First, figure out the average rate that stars are born. Next, figure what fraction of those might have planets. Now figure how many of those planets can support life. Next, how many of them do support life, and so on. Follow this pattern far enough and eventually the formula tells us how many Frank Drakes there might be in the universe.

Whatever number is produced by the formula is essentially meaningless, for many of the equation’s factors are based on pure conjecture. But the general principle is sound: start with a large pool and whittle it down until you have the finalists.

If you think about it, variations of this formula can be created and applied to almost anything. Take, for example, the one hundred thousand people who audition for American Idol each year. A small fraction of those make it past the scouts. A small fraction of those make it past the producers. A small fraction of those actually make it in front of the judges. Another fraction goes to Hollywood, and so on. Eventually, you get down to the season finale where one person, usually Frank Drake, is declared the winner.

This ‘whittling theory’ applies to essentially any discipline. Musicians, actors, athletes, and, yes, even scientists: all of them form vast pyramids where one superstar is supported by an exponentially large number of wannabes at the base and those with varying degrees of talent in between. And it has to be that way. You simply cannot have 100,000 American Idol winners. By definition, there can’t be 100,000 Number One radio hits on the Billboard charts at once. You can’t have 100,000 J.K. Rowlings out there simultaneously, because that would mean a LOT of people buying 100,000 books all at once. Mathematically speaking, the universe is fundamentally designed to support the against-all-odds theorem.

Funny I should mention Rowling just there, since this meandering essay is now at last turning to the point at hand: becoming a successful writer. So in this spirit, I’d like to offer my own variation on the Drake Equation:

It breaks down something like this:

H = The number of humans on the planet capable of writing at all.
f_pf = The fraction of these who have even a passing fancy of writing a book.
f_i = The fraction of these who actually come up with an idea for a book.
f_s = The fraction of these who start writing a book.
f_fd = The fraction of these who by some miracle finish a first draft.
f_m = The fraction of these who complete a final manuscript.
f_a = The fraction of these who find an agent.
f_p1 = The fraction of these whose agents manage to find a willing publisher.
f_p2 = The fraction of these publishers who actually publish.
f_$ = The fraction of these who make any money on the book.
f_$$ = The fraction of these who actually make a living off writing.
f_$$$ = The fraction of these who make a really nice living off writing.

I’ve spent the past few hours playing with some numbers and have accurately concluded there’s about a one in 3.79 brazillion chance that I’ll end up anywhere in the f_$ range. Yet for some reason, I keep at it. Though my higher order brain functions understand it’s against all odds, one fact sticks in my head: no one has yet ever become a successful author by never writing anything. Or, as the state lottery puts it, “You can’t win if you don’t play.”

The current book project is, indeed, intended to be a series of books. When I first re-tooled the idea last summer, it looked like it would span five volumes. While writing the first draft and approaching what would have been the end of the first book, I realized the ending I had originally outlined was fairly lame. Okay, really lame. It would have been as if Tolkien decided to end The Fellowship of the Ring halfway during the Council of Elrond. Had by some miracle it been published, it would have received reviews from some extremely disappointed readers.

So I combined the first two storylines into one, then checked my original outline again. Hmmm… now the third book looked thoroughly pointless. Rejected. So how about the fourth and fifth? Hmmm… yeah, these really should be one book as well. And hey presto! just like that, I had a trilogy. I can live with that.

But after I (more or less) completed the first draft, I began the retooling phase. Writing with my head, as it were. Suddenly it started looking like an extra book might be needed after all. Which to the average person might not sound like a big deal, but causes me to channel the Knights Who Say Ni and declare, “There is one small problem!”

No, it’s not the lack of shrubbery. It’s the fact that four books is an even number. And I just can’t have that. I can’t tell you why, but it’s wrong. Two is bad. Four is bad. Six is bad. Forget the content: I just can’t deal with having an even number of books in a series. One is an awesome number. Three, of course, is absolute magic. Five is like three, but on steroids. Seven is how many years you go to Hogwarts. But four? Uck. Me no like.

If I had to put my finger on it, I believe it comes down to this: there’s no “middle” point. It somehow feels unbalanced. Kind of like when the solar system went from nine planets to eight. It just ain’t right.

Is it just me? Anyone else feel like this?

So I guess I’m going to try and stretch this to five books again. But if someday this whole thing gets published and you notice the middle book is triple spaced with two inch margins, at least you’ll be able to point back to this post for the explanation.