Book revisions continue, but today I took the big step of leaping from reading and researching, jotting notes and thinking, to actually writing. Starting is always hard -- nearly paralyzing. I got over it by reasoning that it's going to be awful no matter what, so why waste time looking for the best way to start?
If you can't avoid crap, well, full speed ahead. Getting past that hurdle of my own expectations is like knocking the first shackle off my legs. Now I can get started. Is it bad? Yes, I hate it. Just as I expected, and just as it's been every other time.
Writing: the cure for hubris. But at least I started.
Showing posts with label Exploratory draft. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Exploratory draft. Show all posts
Monday, October 24, 2011
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Indulge me
Indulgence: disciplined indulgence. That, I'm discovering, is what's necessary for a first draft.
Too much discipline and you're paralyzed: your arm a rigid arc of bone, fingers crooked, words frozen in your mind because they're not ... quite ... right. They're never quite right.
Too much indulgence and you close up the computer and go eat chips instead of writing. What, that's just me?
You have to find a way, and I struggle with this every day, to force yourself those indulgent explorations of the story, to go down paths that hadn't occurred to you when you started writing the scene or the paragraph or even the sentence.
See where things go. You're exploring. There will be time enough later for the merciless gimlet eye of revision.
So the early draft stinks? So does organic fertilizer. But it's great for when you need something to grow.
Did I just compare my exploratory draft to excrement? Yes I did. Sometimes you have to just roll with it.
Too much discipline and you're paralyzed: your arm a rigid arc of bone, fingers crooked, words frozen in your mind because they're not ... quite ... right. They're never quite right.
Too much indulgence and you close up the computer and go eat chips instead of writing. What, that's just me?
You have to find a way, and I struggle with this every day, to force yourself those indulgent explorations of the story, to go down paths that hadn't occurred to you when you started writing the scene or the paragraph or even the sentence.
See where things go. You're exploring. There will be time enough later for the merciless gimlet eye of revision.
So the early draft stinks? So does organic fertilizer. But it's great for when you need something to grow.
Did I just compare my exploratory draft to excrement? Yes I did. Sometimes you have to just roll with it.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
I wrote today
And yesterday. And the day before. When I look back on it -- a few pages of dense black scribble -- it seems like such a small thing. But anyone who has faced the dead nothingness of a blank page knows how hard that is.
The thing that finally kicked me into gear was the realization that I try too hard in rough drafts. That is: I start out writing with the finished goal in mind, and when my draft is NOT that finished version, I despair. Stupid! Like most mistakes, this is crystal clear when I stop and think about it.
In fact what we should compare those exploratory drafts to is not the finished masterpiece ... but the blank page.
When I look at it that way, these first fumbling pages are a huge step.
Something else that's surprised me: in just a few days of writing (but, I'll grant, years of thinking) I have started to care about these characters. I can see the street they're standing on; I can taste the air.
This was not the case when I started, but I pushed on anyway -- not out of any defiant belief that that spark would appear, but because I couldn't figure out what else to do.
When in doubt, sit your ass down and work.
And suddenly the characters are coming to life. It's almost as if I'm not creating them, but uncovering them. Discovering them.
The thing that finally kicked me into gear was the realization that I try too hard in rough drafts. That is: I start out writing with the finished goal in mind, and when my draft is NOT that finished version, I despair. Stupid! Like most mistakes, this is crystal clear when I stop and think about it.
In fact what we should compare those exploratory drafts to is not the finished masterpiece ... but the blank page.
When I look at it that way, these first fumbling pages are a huge step.
Something else that's surprised me: in just a few days of writing (but, I'll grant, years of thinking) I have started to care about these characters. I can see the street they're standing on; I can taste the air.
This was not the case when I started, but I pushed on anyway -- not out of any defiant belief that that spark would appear, but because I couldn't figure out what else to do.
When in doubt, sit your ass down and work.
And suddenly the characters are coming to life. It's almost as if I'm not creating them, but uncovering them. Discovering them.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Cat barf and line edits
The title says it all. Foamy yellow puddles on the kitchen counter? Check. Full spectrum of manuscript edits, from word changes to character arcs? Check.
I thought about quoting one of the editing notes I write to myself -- how self involved can you be, jeez -- but then realized that in order not to give away even crumbs of the plot, I'd have to black out so much it would look like a post-censored Hoover letter:
"Final XXX/XXX argument: pivotal disagreement. XXX focused on XXX, XXX wants to XXX XXX XXX it is. Stained-glass XXX in XXX. XXX wishes he'd XXX more XXX. XXX XXX at end. Maybe we don't see what XXX XXX through XXX XXX."
See? Useless. No, for now, it is mine, all mine, this tender and raw manuscript. Someday I'll look back at this first draft and think how close it was and how far it was, all at the same time.
But for now: edit edit edit edit edit edit edit.
I thought about quoting one of the editing notes I write to myself -- how self involved can you be, jeez -- but then realized that in order not to give away even crumbs of the plot, I'd have to black out so much it would look like a post-censored Hoover letter:
"Final XXX/XXX argument: pivotal disagreement. XXX focused on XXX, XXX wants to XXX XXX XXX it is. Stained-glass XXX in XXX. XXX wishes he'd XXX more XXX. XXX XXX at end. Maybe we don't see what XXX XXX through XXX XXX."
See? Useless. No, for now, it is mine, all mine, this tender and raw manuscript. Someday I'll look back at this first draft and think how close it was and how far it was, all at the same time.
But for now: edit edit edit edit edit edit edit.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Untangling motivation
I'm halfway into my second read-through of my latest draft -- it's nearly 400 pages so this is not a quick process -- and I am discovering something different this time: I love it.
This is rare. Unique, in fact.
Don't get me wrong, it still has the clumsy prose and wandering narrative that is my specialty. But there is, maybe for the first time, something there.
At this macro level of editing I'm focusing on character motivations and change, something for which (rightly so) my brother took me to task in the last book. It's since been fixed, but I'll never forget his red comments, getting more and more disbelieving, culminating in "YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME! NO F'IN WAY!" It was like being edited by John McEnroe.
And so on this book, I'm sensitive to the same issue. Why does my character act this way but feel this other way? Does he grow and change? Is it realistic for him to react in that way? Because I did not outline in detail -- and really, how can you for something this big? -- my character tends to contradict himself, behave inconsistently, hide, reveal, and re-hide truths to himself, on and on.
I have built a spreadsheet that would put an accountant to shame, detailing chapters, POV, primary motivation, secondary motivation, etc. My first thought was to surgically remove everything that did not represent a linear path from Belief A (the main character at the beginning) to Belief B (the main character at the end, when he feels differently about a great many things).
Things were going well; it was fun, when I charted his changing motivation like this, to see what lay outside that path and surgically remove it. I was editing! Hooray! I cannot be stopped!
Until, that is, I realized that none of us proceeds down a single, linear path from Belief A to Belief B. We avoid the issue. Get distracted. Try out different ways of thinking and then double back to the original. Pretend to abandon it. Come back to it. There is a wandering nature to how we grow.
The task of fiction is to maintain one foothold in reality by showing this wandering ... without abandoning the art of it, which requires a certain artificial linearity.
What?
Let's try that again. Showing a simple progression from believing in one thing to believing in another might be convenient for the plot but it would be unrealistic. Yet documenting every motivational twitch or flirtation would be tedious: why read about that when we live it every day? Fiction walks that line, as it so often does.
This is rare. Unique, in fact.
Don't get me wrong, it still has the clumsy prose and wandering narrative that is my specialty. But there is, maybe for the first time, something there.
At this macro level of editing I'm focusing on character motivations and change, something for which (rightly so) my brother took me to task in the last book. It's since been fixed, but I'll never forget his red comments, getting more and more disbelieving, culminating in "YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME! NO F'IN WAY!" It was like being edited by John McEnroe.
And so on this book, I'm sensitive to the same issue. Why does my character act this way but feel this other way? Does he grow and change? Is it realistic for him to react in that way? Because I did not outline in detail -- and really, how can you for something this big? -- my character tends to contradict himself, behave inconsistently, hide, reveal, and re-hide truths to himself, on and on.
I have built a spreadsheet that would put an accountant to shame, detailing chapters, POV, primary motivation, secondary motivation, etc. My first thought was to surgically remove everything that did not represent a linear path from Belief A (the main character at the beginning) to Belief B (the main character at the end, when he feels differently about a great many things).
Things were going well; it was fun, when I charted his changing motivation like this, to see what lay outside that path and surgically remove it. I was editing! Hooray! I cannot be stopped!
Until, that is, I realized that none of us proceeds down a single, linear path from Belief A to Belief B. We avoid the issue. Get distracted. Try out different ways of thinking and then double back to the original. Pretend to abandon it. Come back to it. There is a wandering nature to how we grow.
The task of fiction is to maintain one foothold in reality by showing this wandering ... without abandoning the art of it, which requires a certain artificial linearity.
What?
Let's try that again. Showing a simple progression from believing in one thing to believing in another might be convenient for the plot but it would be unrealistic. Yet documenting every motivational twitch or flirtation would be tedious: why read about that when we live it every day? Fiction walks that line, as it so often does.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Back to work
Hey, remember Reagan? There was a Saturday Night Live sketch that showed him (played by Phil Hartman) as a kindhearted and slightly off-kilter goofus, absently showing a girl scout around the Oval Office. He waved goodbye, nodding and muttering to himself, and then, as soon as the door shut behind her, he spun on his heel.
"BACK TO WORK!" he shouted at his staff, instantly transforming into a steely and efficient getter-of-things-done. Ha ha!
It's back to work for me too, as I have unsealed the Cheerios box containing -- no, not the Ark of the Covenant, though I'm an absolute nut on the subject -- but Draft 1 of my book. Finally!
Criminy, this thing is long. So far, however, I have found no apocalyptic, clothes-rending errors. In fact, and in saying this I'll probably jinx it, it is largely tolerable. A great leap forward, in other words! Ordinarily my exploratory drafts are as palatable as giraffe saliva, but this one seems to be an exception.
I'm halfway through, which means that any day now I'm going to come across some irreconcilable error and have to turn the whole thing into a fleet of paper airplanes. Hey, gotta stay positive.
"BACK TO WORK!" he shouted at his staff, instantly transforming into a steely and efficient getter-of-things-done. Ha ha!
It's back to work for me too, as I have unsealed the Cheerios box containing -- no, not the Ark of the Covenant, though I'm an absolute nut on the subject -- but Draft 1 of my book. Finally!
Criminy, this thing is long. So far, however, I have found no apocalyptic, clothes-rending errors. In fact, and in saying this I'll probably jinx it, it is largely tolerable. A great leap forward, in other words! Ordinarily my exploratory drafts are as palatable as giraffe saliva, but this one seems to be an exception.
I'm halfway through, which means that any day now I'm going to come across some irreconcilable error and have to turn the whole thing into a fleet of paper airplanes. Hey, gotta stay positive.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Finished!
I didn't type "The End." Somehow I can never bear to. But on Sunday morning, after a three-hour push, I took off my glasses. The first draft, the exploratory draft of the book is done. 112,000 words and change.
The last of my already-thin objectivity burned away in that final stretch, and I have no idea if it works, whether it contradicts itself, whether it takes the risks I wanted it to, whether the ending makes sense. And there's no doubt it will need some judicious pruning, 5-10,000 words or so.
But still! There were many times in the last 6 1/2 months that I never thought I would get to this point. Part of me is still reeling from the effort, and part is starting to comprehend the sad fact of absence: I have to say goodbye to these characters for a while.
The plan is to print it out, seal it in a box (literally: duct tape and cord) and forget about it for six weeks or so. I won't be able to forget about it, of course, but at least I won't be reading it, tinkering with it, living it like I have for months and months.
Distance enhances objectivity. Because when I get it back out it's time to be cold-hearted and analytical. What works? What doesn't? What almost does? What's in the wrong place? What should be the sequence of realizations, illuminations?
But now it's something that can be fixed, edited, changed, broken down and reconstructed. Now I have something to work with.
Now I just have to wait. And wait. And wait. The only thing that will make waiting out that six weeks bearable will be ... starting on the next project!
The last of my already-thin objectivity burned away in that final stretch, and I have no idea if it works, whether it contradicts itself, whether it takes the risks I wanted it to, whether the ending makes sense. And there's no doubt it will need some judicious pruning, 5-10,000 words or so.
But still! There were many times in the last 6 1/2 months that I never thought I would get to this point. Part of me is still reeling from the effort, and part is starting to comprehend the sad fact of absence: I have to say goodbye to these characters for a while.
The plan is to print it out, seal it in a box (literally: duct tape and cord) and forget about it for six weeks or so. I won't be able to forget about it, of course, but at least I won't be reading it, tinkering with it, living it like I have for months and months.
Distance enhances objectivity. Because when I get it back out it's time to be cold-hearted and analytical. What works? What doesn't? What almost does? What's in the wrong place? What should be the sequence of realizations, illuminations?
But now it's something that can be fixed, edited, changed, broken down and reconstructed. Now I have something to work with.
Now I just have to wait. And wait. And wait. The only thing that will make waiting out that six weeks bearable will be ... starting on the next project!
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Rejection Fu
A one-line rejection on a full? Yeah, that's fun. Awesome. Keep it coming! Lemon juice or salt in my cuts? Hey, why not both?
The challenge with rejection, I've decided, is not to avoid giving up. All I do is get angry and determined, so I've never seriously considered the idea of stopping. No, the challenge is not letting the rejection own you. That resentment can take over the day, take over the writing, block the flow of creativity and the already-elusive state of relaxed and disciplined openness that writing needs.
And there's a humility too it, also. I don't mean the humility of being reminded that somebody doesn't like the book; big deal, that's unavoidable. Unavoidable.
I mean the humility of diving back into the work-in-progress. Those characters, as the book arcs up to the climax, are in trouble. Really in trouble. I mean, I sit at a desk and open bad-news e-mails: big deal. But these poor people are absolutely screwed unless they come up with a good way, a convincing and realistic and (in retrospect) inevitable way to win or at least survive. And things, to put it mildly, do not look good.
They're the ones facing truly bad news: my job is to just write it down so it makes sense. And that puts one-line e-mails in perspective.
The challenge with rejection, I've decided, is not to avoid giving up. All I do is get angry and determined, so I've never seriously considered the idea of stopping. No, the challenge is not letting the rejection own you. That resentment can take over the day, take over the writing, block the flow of creativity and the already-elusive state of relaxed and disciplined openness that writing needs.
And there's a humility too it, also. I don't mean the humility of being reminded that somebody doesn't like the book; big deal, that's unavoidable. Unavoidable.
I mean the humility of diving back into the work-in-progress. Those characters, as the book arcs up to the climax, are in trouble. Really in trouble. I mean, I sit at a desk and open bad-news e-mails: big deal. But these poor people are absolutely screwed unless they come up with a good way, a convincing and realistic and (in retrospect) inevitable way to win or at least survive. And things, to put it mildly, do not look good.
They're the ones facing truly bad news: my job is to just write it down so it makes sense. And that puts one-line e-mails in perspective.
Friday, April 3, 2009
Centerboard illumination
In a day of slow and misting rain, fogged windows and damp sawdust carpeting the floor, a lone boatbuilder stood at his workbench and pondered the pieces of steel and wood before him.
A bird sang; a man died; a child was born; a star exploded in the silent tomblike darkness of space.
He reached forward. Bolt and tube; rubber ring; washer and nut. And the solution jolted him with a sudden icy chill.
The tube IS the pivot. It turns inside the board, or inside the well sides, or both; it doesn't matter. And the trick is that it is cut exactly flush with the outer surfaces of the well sides. There is bound to be some leakage around the edges of this pivot ... so you compress a rubber ring and steel washer around the top of the tube. How to compress these? With a bolt through the tube.
The bolt is just there to hold the O-ring and washers in place. Those, in turn, are only there to seal out the leaks around the pivot. And pivot must be a hollow tube so the bolt can extend through it and tighten the washers on each side.
Best of all, because the tube takes the weight, the bolt-washers arrangement can be removed and modified / repaired / slathered with grease without dropping the 80-pound centerboard. RESULT!
Meanwhile I have reached a similar problem with the book. It's embarrassing how unexpected this was, but I've stumbled into a scene that is turning out to be the pivotal emotional moment of the whole thing: an argument between two characters, each of whom is right. They face a bad choice where there is no right answer.
Ha ha, just the sort of thing that makes stories interesting! I wonder what they'll do next. Thank goodness I'm not in either of their positions; I just flutter my hands in the background and act worried.
A bird sang; a man died; a child was born; a star exploded in the silent tomblike darkness of space.
He reached forward. Bolt and tube; rubber ring; washer and nut. And the solution jolted him with a sudden icy chill.
The tube IS the pivot. It turns inside the board, or inside the well sides, or both; it doesn't matter. And the trick is that it is cut exactly flush with the outer surfaces of the well sides. There is bound to be some leakage around the edges of this pivot ... so you compress a rubber ring and steel washer around the top of the tube. How to compress these? With a bolt through the tube.
The bolt is just there to hold the O-ring and washers in place. Those, in turn, are only there to seal out the leaks around the pivot. And pivot must be a hollow tube so the bolt can extend through it and tighten the washers on each side.
Best of all, because the tube takes the weight, the bolt-washers arrangement can be removed and modified / repaired / slathered with grease without dropping the 80-pound centerboard. RESULT!
Meanwhile I have reached a similar problem with the book. It's embarrassing how unexpected this was, but I've stumbled into a scene that is turning out to be the pivotal emotional moment of the whole thing: an argument between two characters, each of whom is right. They face a bad choice where there is no right answer.
Ha ha, just the sort of thing that makes stories interesting! I wonder what they'll do next. Thank goodness I'm not in either of their positions; I just flutter my hands in the background and act worried.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Short time
Passing 100,000 words in my work-in-progress has turned out to be a relief. No more milestones! I know I won't reach 200,000 -- Lord knows I don't want to -- and so now I can concentrate on the crescendo of narrative that is just starting to build. Big finish, now, everybody focus!
At the same time I'm rushing to prepare boat parts so then when we have company this weekend I can enlist our guests' muscles to help lift the widowmaker centerboard assembly into the slot prepared for it in the boat bottom. Yep: I cut a slot in my bottom. Still funny!
This entails bolting, prepping, gluing, curing, sanding, and cleaning, all by this weekend. So just as the book kicks into fast gear, so too has boatbuilding. Luckily with warm weather, epoxy now cures overnight so I can go twice as fast as I used to. The down side: the bright work lights attract bugs, which nosedive into the uncured epoxy and stick, as it cures, like mosquitoes in Jurassic amber. Extra ballast, I say.
At the same time I'm rushing to prepare boat parts so then when we have company this weekend I can enlist our guests' muscles to help lift the widowmaker centerboard assembly into the slot prepared for it in the boat bottom. Yep: I cut a slot in my bottom. Still funny!
This entails bolting, prepping, gluing, curing, sanding, and cleaning, all by this weekend. So just as the book kicks into fast gear, so too has boatbuilding. Luckily with warm weather, epoxy now cures overnight so I can go twice as fast as I used to. The down side: the bright work lights attract bugs, which nosedive into the uncured epoxy and stick, as it cures, like mosquitoes in Jurassic amber. Extra ballast, I say.
Friday, March 27, 2009
100,000
This morning my work-in-progress lurched past 100,000 words. A landmark! Which means nothing! It's just a number at the bottom of my screen that makes me feel like I've done something of note.
But like a broken clock that still shows the correct time twice a day, I suspect that if I had typed the same word 100,000 times, at least occasionally it would be the right one in the right place, which is more than I can say for this first draft now slouching towards completion.
How can it seem to be both melodramatic and boring? Both superficial and self-indulgent? I don't know, that's the madness of the exploratory draft!
Oh well. I try not to judge, because I suspect that it's impossible to be objective this close to it. What seems slow-paced will turn out to be fast; what seems meaningful will turn laughable; what I half-remember as sloppy, half-witted prose will become poetry. So really, nothing I think now about its quality matters. At all! Or so I tell myself.
But now the end is in sight. I know roughly what is going to happen and (more importantly) how I want it to feel -- to me, to the reader, to the characters.
There are still -- heh heh heh -- a few surprises in store for the characters. This may be the end of the book, but it's not the end of the story, after all.
Just a few more weeks. I feel like I've rounded the last corner in a race and I can see the finish line even as my muscles turn to glue and everything goes slow and dreamlike. Almost there....
But like a broken clock that still shows the correct time twice a day, I suspect that if I had typed the same word 100,000 times, at least occasionally it would be the right one in the right place, which is more than I can say for this first draft now slouching towards completion.
How can it seem to be both melodramatic and boring? Both superficial and self-indulgent? I don't know, that's the madness of the exploratory draft!
Oh well. I try not to judge, because I suspect that it's impossible to be objective this close to it. What seems slow-paced will turn out to be fast; what seems meaningful will turn laughable; what I half-remember as sloppy, half-witted prose will become poetry. So really, nothing I think now about its quality matters. At all! Or so I tell myself.
But now the end is in sight. I know roughly what is going to happen and (more importantly) how I want it to feel -- to me, to the reader, to the characters.
There are still -- heh heh heh -- a few surprises in store for the characters. This may be the end of the book, but it's not the end of the story, after all.
Just a few more weeks. I feel like I've rounded the last corner in a race and I can see the finish line even as my muscles turn to glue and everything goes slow and dreamlike. Almost there....
Friday, March 20, 2009
"My lord. We have them."
Would I be a true child of the 80s if I did not reference a movie? Especially that foundation of my morals and attitude, The Empire Strikes Back.
The last few days have been tricky, writing-wise. But then yesterday, returning to the office after a lunchtime errand, I heard a song and all became clear.
The main character's motivations sprang into focus as if I'd twisted a knob and revealed something that had been there all along, just impossible to see. The line that burns through the entire narrative from start to finish and ties it together: what he wants, what he fears, what he does. All of it.
From one song.
And in my rush of relief -- things like this seem to occur only after I've tormented myself, often on this very blog (and a heartfelt thank you to Laini and Rebecca for the goodwish comments on my last post) -- I realized I had captured the essence of the story. I had it! The image that came to mind was Admiral (or was he General at that point?) Piett when he finally spots the Millenium Falcon. He turns to Vader and says:
My lord. We have them.
What was the song, you ask?
Well, as they used to say in the Time-Life book advertisements, also from the 80s, "read the book!" Ho ho ho.
Okay, anyone who asks about it after reading the book will get the answer. I'll be curious to see if my vision matches what comes through in the story. But for now: back to work. I can see the end in the distance.
The last few days have been tricky, writing-wise. But then yesterday, returning to the office after a lunchtime errand, I heard a song and all became clear.
The main character's motivations sprang into focus as if I'd twisted a knob and revealed something that had been there all along, just impossible to see. The line that burns through the entire narrative from start to finish and ties it together: what he wants, what he fears, what he does. All of it.
From one song.
And in my rush of relief -- things like this seem to occur only after I've tormented myself, often on this very blog (and a heartfelt thank you to Laini and Rebecca for the goodwish comments on my last post) -- I realized I had captured the essence of the story. I had it! The image that came to mind was Admiral (or was he General at that point?) Piett when he finally spots the Millenium Falcon. He turns to Vader and says:
My lord. We have them.
What was the song, you ask?
Well, as they used to say in the Time-Life book advertisements, also from the 80s, "read the book!" Ho ho ho.
Okay, anyone who asks about it after reading the book will get the answer. I'll be curious to see if my vision matches what comes through in the story. But for now: back to work. I can see the end in the distance.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
LALALALALA!
Dear Publishing Industry: I'm not afraid of you. Nobody's reading? Wait, they are, but it's all e-books about celebrity kung-fu vampires who do nothing but score with each other? And every publishing house is folding because six-year-olds with Twitter accounts are signing contracts to publish cell phone novels?
I'm putting my fingers in my ears. LALALALA I can't hear you.
Dear Rough Draft: You think I am intimidated by the way you take 90,000 words to say nothing of substance? Oh boo hoo, I'm broken-hearted because I wrote 1061 words this morning and they were -- sniff -- almost all useless! Wah! Wah! LALALALA I can't hear you.
Dear Creative Muse: Do you think you can hide forever? I WILL FIND YOU.
Here is my trick: emotional judo. According to Pink Panther movies and 80s cartoons, judo means turning your enemy's attack against him. Not by blocking a flurry of kicks or nunchuks or whatever, but simply by leaning and flowing. Going with it, you might say.
Example: My rough draft is a shambling horror? Great! It's supposed to be. Mission accomplished, what's next?
The publishing industry is eating its own young? What, am I supposed to stop writing? I can't. Write more? I can't. Faster? Impossible. Write something different? No. So what am I supposed to do other than shake my head, accept it, and move on.
Judo. Acceptance.
That, and stick my fingers in my ears. LALALALALA!
I'm putting my fingers in my ears. LALALALA I can't hear you.
Dear Rough Draft: You think I am intimidated by the way you take 90,000 words to say nothing of substance? Oh boo hoo, I'm broken-hearted because I wrote 1061 words this morning and they were -- sniff -- almost all useless! Wah! Wah! LALALALA I can't hear you.
Dear Creative Muse: Do you think you can hide forever? I WILL FIND YOU.
Here is my trick: emotional judo. According to Pink Panther movies and 80s cartoons, judo means turning your enemy's attack against him. Not by blocking a flurry of kicks or nunchuks or whatever, but simply by leaning and flowing. Going with it, you might say.
Example: My rough draft is a shambling horror? Great! It's supposed to be. Mission accomplished, what's next?
The publishing industry is eating its own young? What, am I supposed to stop writing? I can't. Write more? I can't. Faster? Impossible. Write something different? No. So what am I supposed to do other than shake my head, accept it, and move on.
Judo. Acceptance.
That, and stick my fingers in my ears. LALALALALA!
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Invisible Progress
Today I took great strides with my work-in-progress without adding a single word to the draft. Actually, that's a lie: I think I reworked a sentence. But most of my sleepy-eye, coffee-drinking, back-cracking, bird-listening-to, career-rethinking, doubt-saturating, draft-despising, motivation-erasing work this morning was a long discursus in my working document about the rest of the book.
The first two thirds have felt like setup. A long pitch. The "deep breath before the plunge." Getting ready. I have two or three (or six or ten, it feels like) separate plot elements that need to come together in a symphonic crescendo of resolution: that's called the end.
These elements aren't really subplots so much as questions raised that need answers; choices made that need implications; characters poised for growth who now need to take a next step and either stand or fall.
And so I realized I'd better quit indulging myself in thousand-word explorations and get down to the business of wrapping up this story so that the story is surprising but inevitable. Elegant.
And that meant taking the time to list and then work through upcoming issues. It's not even an outline, just a dozen paragraphs of questions and answers, dead ends, and ideas. So: no new writing today, but loads of progress.
The first two thirds have felt like setup. A long pitch. The "deep breath before the plunge." Getting ready. I have two or three (or six or ten, it feels like) separate plot elements that need to come together in a symphonic crescendo of resolution: that's called the end.
These elements aren't really subplots so much as questions raised that need answers; choices made that need implications; characters poised for growth who now need to take a next step and either stand or fall.
And so I realized I'd better quit indulging myself in thousand-word explorations and get down to the business of wrapping up this story so that the story is surprising but inevitable. Elegant.
And that meant taking the time to list and then work through upcoming issues. It's not even an outline, just a dozen paragraphs of questions and answers, dead ends, and ideas. So: no new writing today, but loads of progress.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Doubling
My work-in-progress passed 80,000 words this morning. What in the world? It was just last month that it was half that length. I'm not so much telling the story as writing down the story that's telling itself. And I tend to write more than is necessary ... so that, six weeks after I seal the first draft into a box (cord, duct tape, closet shelf) I can descend on it with a long thin boning knife and remove the fat.
Flense.
So it has doubled in size in not quite two months. But it also feels like it's rounded a turn, and that even if the end is not quite in sight, I can at least envision the last push. The last third.
When captains brought their ships around a long point of land, hooking like a claw into the grey seas of high latitudes ("South of 40 there is no law; south of 50 there is no God") they referred to a successful rounding of the corner as "doubling." As in:
19th Oct 1796
Sighted Cabo de Hornos six bells forenoon watch. Wind fair SE b E backing to ENE by two bells. Offwatch set to work chipping ice from rigging and deck. Stood off tho' kept land within sight. Doubled Cabo de Hornos by five bells graveyard watch; turned north. Extra ration grog for all hands. Sighted ice mountain three bells, steered due S, wind increasing with nightfall.
When you doubled a point of land, you crossed the "horizontal" (on a map) latitude line that marked the beginning of the peninsula. And I have finally doubled my story, in both senses.
Flense.
So it has doubled in size in not quite two months. But it also feels like it's rounded a turn, and that even if the end is not quite in sight, I can at least envision the last push. The last third.
When captains brought their ships around a long point of land, hooking like a claw into the grey seas of high latitudes ("South of 40 there is no law; south of 50 there is no God") they referred to a successful rounding of the corner as "doubling." As in:
19th Oct 1796
Sighted Cabo de Hornos six bells forenoon watch. Wind fair SE b E backing to ENE by two bells. Offwatch set to work chipping ice from rigging and deck. Stood off tho' kept land within sight. Doubled Cabo de Hornos by five bells graveyard watch; turned north. Extra ration grog for all hands. Sighted ice mountain three bells, steered due S, wind increasing with nightfall.
When you doubled a point of land, you crossed the "horizontal" (on a map) latitude line that marked the beginning of the peninsula. And I have finally doubled my story, in both senses.
Monday, February 9, 2009
The Good Bad Magic Place
Some time ago I was camping in the winter. There was so much snow we had to shovel a flat space for the tent, and little pathways to the "bathroom." This was the sort of thing that seemed irresistibly cool when discussed by a roaring fire with a glass of amber liquid in hand ... but which, when put into practice, seemed to result in numb fingers and the near-paralysis that comes from wearing six inches of clothing layers.
Not fun! I told myself, scuffing through snow in the blue dusky darkness. Why do we do this, again?
Then I realized: because it's a different place. Because there's something of value to be gained from just being somewhere unusual. Forget about how it feels at the moment; it's enough for it to be different and, therefore, good.
I am way into my work in progress. Way in. Way, way, way in. So far in I can't remember the freshness of the beginning, nor can I see the end. It's exhausting me, and it's not even that good.
But no first draft is, I tell myself, and return to the slog.
But maybe it's like that cold weekend in the snow. There's a magic to writing a first draft. I don't know what's going to happen, so in a sense it's like reading the story for the first time. Yes, it's hard; yes, it's frustrating; yes, it comes nowhere close the shining image I had when I started.
But still, it's different. There's a magic to this part of the process that won't be here when I revise, or send out queries.
Or so I tell myself.
Not fun! I told myself, scuffing through snow in the blue dusky darkness. Why do we do this, again?
Then I realized: because it's a different place. Because there's something of value to be gained from just being somewhere unusual. Forget about how it feels at the moment; it's enough for it to be different and, therefore, good.
I am way into my work in progress. Way in. Way, way, way in. So far in I can't remember the freshness of the beginning, nor can I see the end. It's exhausting me, and it's not even that good.
But no first draft is, I tell myself, and return to the slog.
But maybe it's like that cold weekend in the snow. There's a magic to writing a first draft. I don't know what's going to happen, so in a sense it's like reading the story for the first time. Yes, it's hard; yes, it's frustrating; yes, it comes nowhere close the shining image I had when I started.
But still, it's different. There's a magic to this part of the process that won't be here when I revise, or send out queries.
Or so I tell myself.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Easy come, easy go
Slugged through another 1000 words this morning. That's not a typo, I felt sluggish and clumsy. By mid-morning I had decided that the entire 1000 words would have to go: it was a scene that I was trying too hard to squeeze in as a transition, to make what came before make sense with what came afterward. It felt forced ... so out it comes!
This is the beauty of having two Word documents open simultaneously as I write, something I cribbed from Laini Taylor: the draft itself (version 1b, in this case) and a Working document where I dash off notes to myself, complaints, ideas, and -- now -- discarded scenes. It takes the pressure off finding an immediate home for those 1000 words, but gets them out of the way of the draft itself.
Too bad, though, a few sentences seemed to really sing. Maybe they'll reappear later!
Special Boatbuilding Note, Inserted for the Use of Schools: an electric blanket works much better than a work light for keeping things warm.
This is the beauty of having two Word documents open simultaneously as I write, something I cribbed from Laini Taylor: the draft itself (version 1b, in this case) and a Working document where I dash off notes to myself, complaints, ideas, and -- now -- discarded scenes. It takes the pressure off finding an immediate home for those 1000 words, but gets them out of the way of the draft itself.
Too bad, though, a few sentences seemed to really sing. Maybe they'll reappear later!
Special Boatbuilding Note, Inserted for the Use of Schools: an electric blanket works much better than a work light for keeping things warm.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Over the Brink
A few late mornings (caused by late nights) notwithstanding, I've remained mostly on track with my early writing plan through the holidays. Note to self: playing Guitar Hero until 2AM is generally not conducive to rising early to write the following day.
Nevertheless! I crossed the 30,000 word threshold on the morning of December 24, and as of this morning I'm at 34,400 words, every one of them seemingly a dull agony, an ugly little bowl filled with pap and tasting of nothing despite the effort that went into them. Kind of like a 34,000-word version of that metaphor, actually.
Nevertheless! 34,400 words is 34,400 words; some of them may be useful; as a whole the thing has momentum now and, most important, I can make it better. It's salvageable, which is really all I ask of a first draft.
Nevertheless! It is not finished, no Precious, a long way indeed from being finished. I'm at the point in the story where I thought I'd be after 10,000 words. Once I trim 20,000 words in revisions -- I'm only half-kidding here -- I should be in good shape.
Nevertheless! Between my "30,000 by end of year" post on Jolie Stekly's blog, and the way such a round number feels significant, I feel like the story has finally clawed up over the lip of the cliff and will have easier walking for some time. That's fancy metaphor-talk for "momentum."
Or maybe the right metaphor is that it's been dragging itself downhill, picking up speed (and cuts from brambles) and now, having rushed to the edge of the cliff, has swung heedless into the abyss.
Nevertheless! The story is on its way.
Nevertheless! I crossed the 30,000 word threshold on the morning of December 24, and as of this morning I'm at 34,400 words, every one of them seemingly a dull agony, an ugly little bowl filled with pap and tasting of nothing despite the effort that went into them. Kind of like a 34,000-word version of that metaphor, actually.
Nevertheless! 34,400 words is 34,400 words; some of them may be useful; as a whole the thing has momentum now and, most important, I can make it better. It's salvageable, which is really all I ask of a first draft.
Nevertheless! It is not finished, no Precious, a long way indeed from being finished. I'm at the point in the story where I thought I'd be after 10,000 words. Once I trim 20,000 words in revisions -- I'm only half-kidding here -- I should be in good shape.
Nevertheless! Between my "30,000 by end of year" post on Jolie Stekly's blog, and the way such a round number feels significant, I feel like the story has finally clawed up over the lip of the cliff and will have easier walking for some time. That's fancy metaphor-talk for "momentum."
Or maybe the right metaphor is that it's been dragging itself downhill, picking up speed (and cuts from brambles) and now, having rushed to the edge of the cliff, has swung heedless into the abyss.
Nevertheless! The story is on its way.
Monday, December 15, 2008
I Have Lost Control of My Characters
If I ever had it, that is. Over the weekend this work-in-progress took a dark turn as something bad happened to a character I've come to really like.
I say "happened" like I had nothing to do with it, and that's in fact exactly what it felt like. He made a series of bad choices and they caught up with him and it was heartbreaking to read it -- to discover it appearing on the screen even though I was the one typing it. The worst part was, once I realized it was happening, I knew it had to happen that way. There have to be consequences, otherwise the story is a cheat somehow.
Still, it affected me. Strangely and intensely, sending me into a sadness for most of Sunday. The upside, of course (to paraphrase Stephen King) is that if even I didn't know this was coming, it will surprise readers even more.
24000 words and change so far. I'm coming for you, 30,000!
I say "happened" like I had nothing to do with it, and that's in fact exactly what it felt like. He made a series of bad choices and they caught up with him and it was heartbreaking to read it -- to discover it appearing on the screen even though I was the one typing it. The worst part was, once I realized it was happening, I knew it had to happen that way. There have to be consequences, otherwise the story is a cheat somehow.
Still, it affected me. Strangely and intensely, sending me into a sadness for most of Sunday. The upside, of course (to paraphrase Stephen King) is that if even I didn't know this was coming, it will surprise readers even more.
24000 words and change so far. I'm coming for you, 30,000!
Thursday, December 11, 2008
30,000
I posted a comment on Jolie Stekly's blog when she asked about December goals: my goal, no longer a secret, is to reach 30,000 words on my work in progress by the end of the year. I'm about about 19,500 now so in theory, that shouldn't be impossible. In theory.
But with the holidays comes travel, gift-buying, and fattening, all of which provide ample excuse not to write.
At 30,000 words I should be well into the story; it should have its teeth well into me.
We'll see where I am on January 1. Will it be 30,000 words? Or will sugar-induced lethargy win the day?
But with the holidays comes travel, gift-buying, and fattening, all of which provide ample excuse not to write.
At 30,000 words I should be well into the story; it should have its teeth well into me.
We'll see where I am on January 1. Will it be 30,000 words? Or will sugar-induced lethargy win the day?
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