Manuscript Massacre and Why Editing is Like Piano Practice

I apologize for the absence the last couple weeks. I have been rather absorbed in the task of hacking my manuscript to bits and pieces.

It is a bit odd. I hated editing my last manuscript. Every time I had to cut out a clip of dialogue or a good description I would wince. No. I worked hard to make that. You can't just take it OUT.

"I can" my inner editor would reply "if it isn't helping the story."

Pout. Sulk. Threaten to use even more run on sentences and "ing" words. Finally relent and click delete.

But this time I've only been editing a couple of weeks and I've already cut out three whole scenes. And you know what? I don't miss them. Not a whit. They weren't bad but they were unneeded and bogged down the plot. I'm feeling rather ruthless with my words right now. Half the scenes I've kept in so far have been paired down quite a bit.

Slash. Stab. Parry. Watch the ink drip in little black blobs on the bottom of the page. The extra words fall away for stronger prose, better emphasis to the important parts of the story.

For me having a finished draft is a bit like struggling through a piece of sheet music for the first time. Yeah you have an idea of where your fingers have to go and where the difficult chords are but the piece is far from learned. And any good music teacher will tell you that playing it over and over straight through won't do you much good. You have to take it a few measures at a time, zone in on the trouble spots, and really learn the music phrase by phrase, before you can smooth it out as a finished piece.



So that's what I've been attempting. It's slow progress but progress. I can't wait to see it all fit together.

What is your editing process like?

Soooooooooooo Close

This is me and my manuscript right now.


I have somewhere between ten and fifteen pages left of draft one (my best estimate is twelve but you never know for sure) but unfortunately I won't have time to really work on it for a couple of days yet. I'm still a bit stunned though that I wrote the last hundred and fifty pages within the last two months. I have never and I mean NEVER written that fast in my life. Hopefully the writing isn't sloppier than usual but if it is that's what editing is for.

Well I'm off to return to my To Do List and try not to think about my beloved and currently estranged manuscript.

Happy writing my friends :D

So today I'm thinking about music. Actually TODAY I'm thinking about the fact that my Western Civilization class finally added me back after dropping me the first day because I had a driver's test and didn't show up (yay persistance)and the fact that I just got a novel chapter length e-mail from a friend in China who I haven't talked to in probably a year. (Actually I've never talked to her at all the for real, in person kind of way, but we've been internet friends since we were both in high school seven or eight years ago.) A member of my crit group also just moved to Japan and another friend I've know forever is going to move there in December. Why is everyone suddenly in Asia?

At any rate, YESTERDAY, when I decided what I was going to ramble about today, I was thinking about music and so now I am about to start thinking about that again.

Music. If I were the type to use, music would be my drug of choice. I used to be a music major and sometimes it just felt like a bad addiction. I HATED being on stage. I hadn't decided to learn any kind of instrument until I was sixteen and had no natural aptitude for any of the ones I tried. And yet somehow I couldn't stop. I wanted to know music. I wanted to be music. To control with a twist and weave of my fingers the way my classmates did. I wanted it to obsorb me completely, and take me to whatever majical place it trickled down from. Becuase how could anything so sweet, so perfect, so exciting, come from our world? How could it even be compared with ordinary life?

Maybe that's why it didn't work out for me. Chopin and Motzart and Joplin and the unknown composers of folk tunes were too unreal for me. Too Other. I couldn't think of them with the casual, every day aditude the other musicians had. They played music. That was what they did. There wasn't anything special about it. It was just a part of who they were.

Some people like to say there is no such thing as inner born talent. People who say that have never seen my little brother pick up an instrument he's never touched before and start playing. Talent needs to be nurtured. It sometimes manifests itself later in life or when you least expect it, but it exists.

So my allotment of musical talent is small. That doesn't mean I don't still fiddle around on the piano from time to time. That doesn't mean that my fingers don't twitch when I hear a strain of particularly etherial flute notes and long more than anything to be the one holding that flute. It just means I know where my stronger talent lies. The one that is just a part of who I am. What I do.

Writing.

I wonder sometimes if when those classmates played their finals all they heard were their mistakes. I wonder if they agonized about them afterwards and went over in their heads about what went wrong.

Actually I know they did. I listened to them do it sometimes. "I held those notes too long. Did you notice when I acidently hit a mnor chord instead of a major?" To which I laughed nervously. Manically. I didn't hear their mistakes. What I heard was magic, otherworldly.

So then I look at my drafts. The long ones, and short ones, and finished and unfinished ones. The run on sentances and typos and over use of the word "saids" and wonder if my readers will even see those. That doesn't mean I'll ever stop agonizing over them or trying to find the exact perfect turn of phrase but I wonder if--or maybe hope that --my readers might see past the mechanics. If maybe to them the story itself will seem otherworldly.

What I Haven't Been Doing

Writing. That's what I haven't been doing. Not really. Not in proportion to all the time I've had lately to devote to it. Instead I have been

Going to costume parties


Sitting around the backyard firepit


Exploring Beaches


Going to More costume parties


Exploring more beaches


Having Tea


And generally making a hoolagin of myself.

You may remember a post of summer goals a couple months back. Let's see how I have fared.

1) Query----I sent off six. Does that count?

2) Finish my current WIP --- I'm about thirty pages further along than I was

3) Write short stories with particular magazines in mind for them ---Uh . . . I started one new story but didn't finish it

4) Read --Well this one was a lot easier. I got quite a bit more than usual reading in.

The point is that despite the fact that I am only six days away from returning to a classroom to run my mind through obstacle courses. Despite the fact that my free time will soon be so sparce that every moment of it will be spent before I get to it. Despite the fact that my list of goals and list of accomplishments for this summer look nothing alike. . .

I don't regret the way I've spent my time.

Stillness is a difficult lesson to learn.

Sometimes we need a little quiet, a little inspiration, a little experience. All writing is ultimately about life. What's the point if we don't live as well?

On Giving Critiques

I don't think I even need to comment on the invaluable effects of a good critique. I myself have some very amazing critique partners, (L. T. Host, Keriann Gearney Martin, K. Marie Criddle, Refugio Jones and Whitney Coleman) who help me to improve my writing constantly. I am sure many of you who have crit partners know exactly what I am talking about. When critiquing a piece however, it is sometimes difficult to know how much help I am actually being, if maybe I am ripping apart the writer's love child for my own pleasure. Here are some general guidelines I try to follow when I am asked for my opinion on a piece of writing, though ultimately it comes down to a lot of old fashioned intuition (drat writing and its inability to conform to absolute rules –except that that's my favorite part about it).

1) What is my relationship to the writer? Critique partners, of course, want nothing but my full, honest opinion but occasionally a close friend will ask me to review something they've written and I try to be a little more gentle. Similarly, if I am visiting a new critique group or critiquing something by a guest I tend to explain my comments in greater detail since they are aren't likely to be familiar with my verbal shorthand for particular writing issues.

2) How experienced is the writer? Some writers leave almost nothing but nit-picky grammar mistakes for me to discuss with them while others leave a vast legion of plot and formatting hiccups that I take issue with. When that happens I try not to point out every single item in their piece that causes me to pause. If they are bombarded with everything at once they will likely get discouraged and not know where to begin. Instead I will point out a few of the issues in the same order I would edit my own work, beginning with plot and character hiccups and then the structural and stylistic if there aren't too many of the others for the writer to deal with at once. Not because I don't think the writer can “handle” the feedback so much as it is easier to fix things when the focus is narrowed.

3) What are the good qualities of the piece? Sometimes good writing is harder to see than bad. When something is amiss it jumps out and screams at me but when everything is flowing smoothly I become involved in the story and forget all about the writing. It is just as important, however, for a writer to know what she is doing right as it is for her to know what she is doing wrong. I wouldn't want her to sacrifice her beautiful, clever use of language in order to quicken the pace. At least not on every page.

4) Is the comment I am about to make stylistic or a personal preference? Stylistic comments are usually pretty easy to find. If you prefer to dialogue tags or italicized thoughts, omniscient narrative, or present tense. These comments are worth bringing up but a disclaimer recognizing it to be stylistic or an explanation as to why that particular technique does not work in that particular spot is needed. Personal preferences, however, can be harder to spot. For example, if I were not attracted to particularly manly men I might be tempted to tell a writer that her character's love interest is unattractive when the majority of her readers would disagree with me. Similarly I might sympathize with a character I am not meant to if she is given a hobby I enjoy or a vice a struggle with myself.

So what are your guidelines for critiquing other writers' work? Do you tend to ere on the side of being too nice or too harsh? What writing issues can you simply not stand?

Could Have, Would Have

“I could write a novel if I had the time. I might not be very good at the language but I could put together a good story. I dream novels.” --Actual quote.

Perhaps I am over sensitive but these kinds of comments make my tongue bleed trying to hold back a retort. I can't help but feel like I've been letting the tannins of a good pinot roll around on the back of my tongue when someone comes along and tries to chug down the whole bottle in one go.

First, who actually has time to write? Writing is what you do instead of sleeping/eating/shopping/watching tv/doing the dishes because you can't help yourself.

Second, writing is all about the language. True, the grammar doesn't have to be perfect and the prose doesn't have to be poetry for the story to be compelling (though it does help) but you have to choose your words carefully and piece them together in a way that will make your reader not only understand what is going on, but care.

Third, dreams aren't novels. Dreams can inspire novels, they can be as vivid and complex as novels, but when you wake up and try to write them down they are full of holes. Wait, why was I so afraid to sound the strange gong? What were we doing at the monastery anyways? Why did the floating boat community we lived on have to close after dark and what did that have to do with the gong in the first place? (questions from actual dream) These holes can be filled but it takes a lot of careful thought.

I am sure that people who make such comments really could write a novel if they were willing to put the time and effort into it. It might turn out to be harder than they expected but they could do it. Still, there is one important factor that prevents them.

They haven't started one yet.

I hope I don't sound overly bitter and defensive. Do these kind of throwaway comments frustrate you at all?

My Xanadu. My Wasteland.

Mind fueled by a dim and flickering furnace.

Faded Memory, ripe with souls long past.

Uncertain wisdom crowded with ghosts.

Will you deign to take their place?



Images fill my cavern of consciousness.

A smile, a touch, a shadow colored glance.

Imagined memories, tales of romance,

Laced with thoughts of rest.


Smothered in mind patterns, I struggle for air,

Entranced by the entity called self,

Unable to escape, to breach gulf

That surrounds my empty lair.



If I reach for you will you close the gap?

Smother the smotherings with your breath, your voice,

Words that choke the cacophony, the noise.

Touch my mind. I'll give you a map.



Show me everything you know how to chase

Don't leave me without the grasp of your hand.

Join me in my Xanadu, my Wasteland.

Would you deign to fill that place?

Character: Villains Within and Villains Without

Everyone loves to see the bad guy brought down at the end of a story but only in Saturday morning cartoons is the villain the sole cause of the conflict. It can be tempting to create an antagonist who's sole purpose in to torture the protagonist but a writer must be careful in constructing her villains. A villain who does not have his own reasons for doing things and his own feelings about everything that is going on is not a character. He is a plot devise.

A good villain has a choice between more than one path, which makes his decision to be evil more frightening and detestable. More frightening because we see the same duel possibilities within ourselves and more detestable because we see the same duel possibilities in the hero.

A good villain is human.

Similarly, a good hero's worst foe is himself. Defeating the villain in the flesh is only an outward demonstration that he has destroyed his own inner demons. He must find the strength without joining the dark side (Luke). Even the simplest good against evil plots become static unless the hero is fighting something deeper than external conflict.

A good hero is human.

And then there are the gray areas. The --gasp---possibility that the antagonist is preventing the protagonist from getting what he wants, not because he has a dark soul, but because two men can not marry the same girl, rule the same kingdom, or win the same trophy. Perhaps the antagonist chooses the good of his own family over the good of the protagonist's family or the good of the many over the good of the one who happens to the protagonist's true love. Perhaps the antagonist is the true force of light while the protagonist tries to justify his own dark deeds by parading a great nonexistent cause.

Brood. Whine. Search. Wallow. The hero becomes more acquainted with his humanity. The writer becomes more acquainted with her humanity. The readers become more acquainted with their humanity. Pain. Tears. Struggle. Hidden wounds are unsurfaced. And when it is done?

Strength. Humanity.

Or

Bang. Boom. The villain is dead and peace is restored to Happy Valley. You decide which you prefer.

A: Agency

This is where I attempt to study and blog at the same time. Watch a fool juggle! (or drop both balls. We'll see.)

In my anthropology class we have a lot of discussions about agency vs. cultural structure. In this context agency is simply any person's ability to change or go against society despite the structure --or at least move themselves into a different place within it. The dynamics between the two is fascinating in and of itself but I always understand concepts better after I've related them to writing. Or maybe I just relate them to writing even if I already understand them. Because I can. At any rate . . .

Think of agency as your characters and structure as your plot.

In one regard all characters need agency. They need to act on their own free will and conscious against their adversaries within the story but sometimes they also need a little freedom to work against your plot structure in order to stay life-like. On the other hand, if you allow your characters to drive all your writing decisions your plot could very well end up a rambling mess. This depends a lot of course on an individual writer's style but I should like to put the question up for discussion.

How much "agency" do you allow (or believe that they have whether you give it to them or not) you characters to have and how much to you rely on your plot structure? How do you strike a balance between the two?

The Number One Secret To Writing

I'm feeling rather mischievous about this.

There is a lot of advice out there for writers. Some of it is helpful and some of it is not. A lot of it just depends on defining what your goals are and figuring out what works for you, but there is one very important element of writing that is very seldom addressed. This, my friends, is the number one secret to writing, which is, of course . . .

. . . that there is no number one secret to writing.

I pause here and indulge in a wicked grin while you groan and roll your eyes.

Wait. Come back. Forgo the scythes and pitch forks a moment. There is more.

There are a lot of elements we discuss when deciding how we are going to write a book --tone, characterization, plot, setting, whether or not to use adverbs --but, in the --slightly altered-- words of Jack Sparrow “That's what a book needs. What a book is –what a book really is –is a story.” There is something intangible and altogether undefinable hidden in the pages of a good book that really can't be pulled apart into all those little elements that hold it together.

Musician call it musicality. Actors call it presence. Dancers call it grace. You don't have to be born with it but you can't really learn it either. Not with a list of rules and techniques. You can only find it, hidden somewhere deep within yourself. All the tricks to help you define your prose and increase your tension can help you showcase it and improve upon it but the finger that points to the moon is not the moon itself. Relying on the rules is like having a keel and a hole and a deck but no ship.

There is no secret –or legion of secrets –that will make your writing good. You can do everything right down to the last detail and still have a rotten story. You can have characters that are underdeveloped, a plot full of holes, and awkward prose but still have a story that is pure magic.

Find your story and tell it. That is the number one secret to writing. In fact, it is the only secret.

(also you still have six days left to enter the Magical Stranger contest for Literary Idol)

13 Reasons Why Writing And I Are Meant To be (and apologies for not having any Literary Idol entries for you this month)

I am terribly sorry. My time has been lapped up by geography and anthropology readings this month and I wasn't able to spread the word of the "Ode" Challenge around as much as I would have liked. There are, alas, no entries for you to vote on today. I will do my best to spread the word of the next challenge with a little more zeal (who wants to pass general ed classes anyway?) and hope to have some fabulous stories for you to choose from in March. Today I will substitute with my own "ode" of sorts to writing.


13 Reasons Why Writing and I Are Meant To Be

13) I'm a project junkie. I love to see my efforts start out as something small and keep growing, slowly until finishing it is all I can think about and it completely absorbs me.

12) I enjoy spending long hours by myself (wait! Come back! Not that long)

11) The calming sensation of pen on paper

10) I garble words when I speak. Writing lets me take the time to choose the right ones

9) The buzz I get when my plot points start clicking into place, all the little pieces coming together in a whole that makes sense. Man o Man, there isn't anything better than that.

8) I daydream too much for any other job

7) I love doing research

6) Pretending to be inside so many different heads helps me to understand people better

5) Pretending to be inside so many heads helps me to understand myself better

4) I must completely absorb every detail of my experiences in case I need to recreate them on the page

3) I must seek out new experiences to absorb

2) All my heroes are writers. They transport me to other worlds, show me things I could never imagine, and teach me things I never thought I would need to know. They comfort me when I am sick and give me strength to face the impossible. They are a friend when I am lonely even though I have never met them. They crowd my mind with ideas and I can not help but want to become one of them.

1) Writing is the closest to making love with a book I can get

Writing and I are made for each other. I don't care how good Accounting looks in a tux or what kind of new haircut Real Estate has. Writing is the only career for me.

Eyes Bigger Than . . . Well My Eyes

I hate skimming books for research instead of emerceing myself in every detail and digesting them slowly.

I hate passing books that look interesting in the bookstore without even reading the back.

I hate returning books to the library unopened to avoid late fees.

I hate turning in work I know could be better if I'd had another day to edit.

I hate only reading two or three blogs before I realize I have to be somewhere.

I hate sitting down in front of the computer and, instead of getting lost in the words wiggling out of my fingers, keeping my eyes on the clock and panicing when I see how low my word count is.

I hate only giving a sentence or two of commentary instead of anylizing line by line.

It may be time for me to do less in order for me to do more.

A Study in Ink: "Jack" Lewis

Aparantly when Clive Staples Lewis was a boy he woke up one day and told his family to call him Jack. It stuck and after that anyone who knew him socially called him Jack. Names are odd like that. Oficially they can be one thing but you are really known by what you are called. I think I would prefer Jack too if my given name were Clive.

I'll begin our discussion of Lewis' work with the most well known and the first ones I read. The Chronocles. I like to call Narnia my first love in literature. It has that sort of sweet, outgrown, nostalgia for me. At the time they were perfect, full of adventure and magic, metaphysical truths and a certain brand of university humor that is in most of Lewis' books. The first concious observation I made on writing style was Lewis' tendancy to point out small details the reader is likely to have experienced like waking up on the hard ground, how thirsty eating toffee for dinner will make you or how much more frusterating it is to wait for something when you have no idea how long you will have to wait, in order to relate them to the story.

My second brush with Lewis was his space trylogy. I have very strong memories of reading Out of the Silent Planet during a tedius pep rally in high school and Perelandra while camping. I think more than anything else Perelandra whet my apitite for thought and discussions about life. I mean what better paradise can you imagine than a planet with land waves and perfect fruit to eat while sit around throwing ideas back and forth at each other?

The more I read of Lewis' works and his life the more I realize that he wrote mostly about himself. Professor Kirk was the name of one of his own proffesors and has a very similar personality as does Digory to Lewis as a boy. Pilgrim's Regress, even though he insisted he was seeking to generalize a logical series of beliefs, more or less chronicalizes his own intelectual/spiritual journey and even Ransom from the space trylogy is arguable a version of his friend Tolkien.

I have read Screwtape Letters three times I believe and written a research paper on it. It was, Lewis admitted, one of the easiest pieces for him to write because it was so easy for him to get into the head of the diabolical. Being nasty is never very difficult. It is interesting to be shown the life of a completely unremarkable man through the eyes of a creature who is contemptous of everything we tend to admire. Screwtape is witty and entertaining, and even makes some excelent points but Lewis always makes it clear when he is disagreeing with the demon. The quote that sticks with me the strongest is "Now is the closest time to eternity."

A Grief Observed is interesting because it was written after most of his books of philosophy (my favorite of which are The Abolition of Man and Discarded Images) and theology were already published and yet chronolizes all his carefully laid thoughts falling appart after the death of his wife. A testiment that a true thinker's thoughts are never done. Their conclusions are as fragile as anybody else's.

The C.S. Lewis book that surprised me the most was Till We Have Faces. It doesn't take place in an imagined land of metaphysical exploration like The Great Divorce, Pilgrim's Regress or Narnia or a university (the only profession he knew well enough to feel confident writing about) like Screwtape or his space trylogy. It is a retelling a myth narated by a woman set in ancient Greece and yet it is full of the same logic mixed with romantic longing that all of his books are held together with.

So what did Lewis teach me about writing? To long for the unknown. To think long and hard about what the little thing represent. To choose my details wisely. To not be afraid to write about the things closest to me. To read so that I am not alone. That now is the closest time to eternity.

Forgive Me While I Go Rogue Scholar For A Moment

My English 124 professor has an infatuation with the State, Explain, Examples, Illustrate format for critical thinking. What? A format for critical thinking? Isn't critical thinking the ability to think outside the box? Isn't format the epitome of a box? (unlike structure which can be tailored to fit the situation)

It's been awhile since I wrote much that wasn't purely creative or at least literary analysis. The last composition class I took was quite a few years ago and while it was when I developed my “Point of Inspiration” theory on forcing assignments I have no emotional connection with to . . . well develop an emotional connection of some kind I never really missed it.

It's not that I don't love writing essays. Or at least I love the things my mind does throughout the process of writing an essay. I'm not usually satisfied with the end result. There is just something frustrating about being asked to say something in a certain way without anyone actually caring what I say so long as it follows the format.

I'm also used to subjective critique. “I don't understand your character's motivation in this passage, do you think you could clarify without slowing down the pace?” or “This would be clearer if it were one sentence instead of two.” Instead of “Use an example here”. I like to be asked to rethink my work and what I'm trying to express with it not told what changes to make.

And for the final touch of irony the current piece I'm working on is arguing against complete relativism.

Study In Ink: An Invitation

When I when thirteen I wanted to be a dragon slayer and save the world from inevitable destruction but since Peter Pan only visited the Darings' window and the white rabbits I ever had the pleasure of seeing were locked in a cage with a conspicuose lack of wastecoat and watch I decided on the next best thing. I would write about dragon slayers.
If I couldn't be Sir George himself I would be his jongular and come along for the ride. Still something in the mind of a thirteen year old desires heroes they can emulate.
Enter the Inklings.
C.S. Lewis, J.R.R. Tolkien, Roger Lancelyn Green, Owen Barfield, Charles Williams. They were the round table of fantasists. The inventors of the genre. I liked to imagine them sitting around the table in the back of The Eagle and The Child (or The Bird and The Baby as the locals called it) on Tuesday morning smoking their pipes, eating eggs and mushrooms and reading their work to each other. While most girls my age were obsessing over posters of N Sync and The Backstreet Boys I was hunting down as many books as I could find by these gifted authors, memorizing odd facts about their lives and --yes --learning elvish.
My Reasons for writing are different now, though perhaps not as different as I might imagine. Still, I feel a little flutter of hero worship when I hear the names of these, my first writing teachers. I would like to spend the next month or two discussing these authors, their works, and what they taught me. Please join me for this series of discussions entitled A Study In Ink.

Haikus!

My much cluttered muse
Too often abandoned
Do not leave me yet

If I could pen words
For every mindspun thread
My fingers would break

First Story

Once upon a time I decided to write a story. Once upon a time I did. Once upon a time I had so much exitement rolling around in my head that my pen could not fly across the page fast enough. Once upon a time I shared those stories with my friends and they loved them. Once upon a time I did too.

Later in time I decided to publish my stories. Later in time I read all the rules and realized everything I had been doing wrong. Later in time I went through my prose with a fine toothed comb made from my own bones. Later in time I deleted and re-typed and banged my head against the keyboard, wondering if I would ever be any good.

Now. I stiil write. I still agonize over my choice in words. I think my writing has improved but sometimes something is missing. Some days I have to force myself to sit down in front of the computer and I wonder if publication is worth the loss of that buzz of romance I'd had when I first started writing. Ultimately the story is the most important and when I change the question to is making the story the best I posibly can worth it the answer is always yes. Still, I sometimes miss those early flirtatious days as I writer so in tribute to that original romance I give you the first story I ever wrote.

Two Kings

Once upon a time there were two kings named George and James. Now King George and King James were the best of friends. They loved to get together and brag. Oh yes, they loved to sit over a hot cup of tea and brag about this and brag about that, about their tax refunds, about their latest balls. Those two kings would brag about anything.
One day King James happened to mention his army. “Well my army is the best the world has to offer.” he said.
“Why James my dearest friend,” King George said “Your army is very great but not as great as mine. No, my army is the best!”
“No George that is not true. Your army is wonderful but I do believe that if they were to meet in battle mine would win.”
This James should not have said for the very next thing George said was “And so they shall!”
At first King James did not know what to say for though he was sure that he would win and wanted to prove his point he knew what a battle could mean but realizing that if he refused he would prove King George right he said,
“Very well. In two days at exactly noon our armies will charge together in Rain Valley.” King George agreed and they went to make battle plans.
The next day after comparing battle plans it was decided that they would have tea together above the valley and watch. So the battle lines were drawn and everyone waited to see who would make the first move.
But alas! King George's army had forgotten to bring swords. Naturally they could not have a fair battle without them so it was decided that King James' army would share half of their swords with King George's army. George's army had finally gotten ready when it was discovered that King James' army had forgotten to bring shields. Naturally they could not have a fair battle without shields so it was decided that King George's army would share half of their shields with King James' army. Both armies had finally gotten ready when suddenly . . .
A stampede of elephants rushed into the valley, trampling the soldiers.
“Stand your ground!” shouted James.
“Hold them back!” ordered George.
From then on it was all a blur of clashing swords, stamping elephants and shouted orders. Within an hour they had driven the elephants back to where they had come from with only a few minor injuries.
Although there were no major wounds it was plain to see that neither army were by any means fit for battle. George suggested rescheduling but James decided that it did not matter who's army was the best so long as they were there to help each other in need. The truth was James had seen George's army with the elephants and decided he had better back out just in case and surprisingly George was not reluctant to agree for he had watching James' army and decided they were not to be trifled with.
“I couldn't agree more James.” he said, sipping his tea “Oh my cook makes the best tea.”
“No George, that is not true.” James said “Your cook makes very good tea indeed but I do believe that the most skilled taste testers, if choosing between them, would say that my cook's tea is the best.
This James should not have said for the very next thing George said was. “We shall see about that!”

Oh No!

Last week I finished my first beginning to end draft of the novel I have been working on for five years.(Hooray!) Most of the individual chapters have all been edited a time or two though so I think I'll call it draft 1 1/2. At any rate as I sat typing the last few pages, a thrill of disbelief surging through me (five years really is a long time)my brain ran into some serious trouble. Ideas. For a sequel.

I've sworn up and down a thousand times that this book will not have a sequel. I have too many other projects squirming in line for a place on my front burner. Besides, a lot of sequels aren't done very well and suck the joy out of the original book after you read them. I tried to write one once. It didn't work. So when ideas started niggling at my mind awhile back about what happens to some of the characters I thought well, maybe a short story or two that happens in the same world. I could live with that. But here I was typing out the very last pages thinking "Ah, finished at last" (except for you know that whole editing process) and suddenly they aren't just vague ideas anymore. I'm seeing a plot direction, threads that pull together, flashes of dialogue, new sets, a connection to some folk takes I had wanted to novelize years ago but had forgotten about and a whole swirl of colors.

This may sound strange but I know I'm in trouble when I start seeing colors. Every manuscript I've actually finished has a very distinct color I associate with it.

"The Stable" --Chestnut

Sirela --Blue and Silver

Criminal Mastermind --White. With shades of gray.

Ruler of Geal --Amber. In Various shades and textures.

The colors aren't visible in the actual execution of the writing or any kind of theme or anything. They're just somewhere in the back of my mind when I think about that story, holding it together. Probably connected more to tone than theme. . .

So will Ruler of Geal have a sequel? Very possibly. A red and orange sequel,though focusing on a different protagonist altogether. I still say it needs to wait in line behind all my other projects but who knows? It's not like I'm in control here or anything.

Books on Writing

There are probably as many ways to write as there are writers and I'm just going to take the easy route and say they are all the right way to do it. However, different pieces of writerly advise have been more relavant to me and my writing. Here are some of the books that I have found helpful.

On Becoming a Novelist -by John Gardner

I love that this is not a how to book. It doesn't even focus on the craft of writing itself very much. It contemplates why someone would want to be a writer, whether they should, whether they have any chance, John Gardner's own experience with writing and his experiences with young writers. Plus its John Gardner. The prose is pure poetry.

Zen in the Art of Writing -by Ray Bradbury

I am sort of a diehard Bradbury fan. The odd thing is I was introduced to his writing through his essays on writing rather than the other way around. I came across this book and connected with it, thought he sounded like he might know what he was talking about but wanted to make sure his writing was decent before I bought into it. It was. More than decent actually.

The Modern Library's Writer's Workshop:a Guide to the Craft of Fiction -by Stephen Koch

I don't usually condone writing "methods" (That is if a method works for you by all means use it but I don't condone it as a difinative process that should never be strayed from) However if there were a method I used this book pretty much describes it. With the exception of the fast first draft. I tend to write really slowly the first time around.

How To Become a Famous Author Before You're Dead -by Ariel Gore

I hesitate to include this book because 1)I'm not sure that I would want to be a famous author. I think I would settle for one that got paid. and 2) I'm not a famous author and therefore couldn't say for certain if Ariel Gore's advice is sound. Still, what this book awakened for me was the knowledge that I didn't have to sit around waiting for an editor or agent to give me his blessing before I am a writer. I am a writer now and there are other avenues available (like blogs and zines) that allow me to offer what I have say to the world now. Ironically I don't feel the need to be published as strongly as I used to.

Workshops

Even if its not your work being discussed it is always worthwhile to listen to people pick apart a piece of writing. Even if you decide that no one knows what they are talking about in order to make that conclusion you have to think about why they are all wrong which will lead to a stronger understanding of the craft.

You're writing is different than mine. Maybe these books won't help you. Still, maybe they will.

Only So Many Ways To Die

I have been writing a lot of death scenes lately. Not surprising considering that the manuscript I am working on is a war story and I'm near the end. It's the climax. It's supposed to be dramatic but I'm worried that's its just coming off as numbers. So many at once seem to take the significance out of each individual's death. All the scenes are the same. The battle wound. The death tremors. The unseeing eyes. If I'm bored I'm sure the reader will be but how many other ways can I write a death?

There are only so many kinds of weapons. Only so many places on a human body for them to penetrate. So some of my characters scream and others don't. Some die instantly while others go feverish and rave. Some die off stage and I only have to describe their death grins and lifeless complexions. It doesn't feel like enough. The deaths are still mechanical. How do you convey everything involved in the loss of a life with mere words.

Maybe that's what I want. Maybe I want me readers to be sick of death to the point where they feel numb. Still, just because I want the to feel the repetitions of people dieing doesn't mean I want my writing to be repetitious.

The most effective death scene I have ever read was only two sentences (spoiler warning. If you have never read The Kestral by Lloyd Alexander go do so now and come back):

(paraphrased because I don't have a copy of the book handy) Theo saw a lump of something like a side of meat. It took him a moment to realize that it was Stock.

That's it. Two sentences. The death even happened off stage (I really think the Greeks may have been on to something there)

I say two sentences but really it was much more than that. The impact of those sentences were supported by the rest of the book.

First, the reader is irrevocably fond of Stock. He is enthusiastic, good natured, amusing and has for the last chapter or so been the only person Theo (the viewpoint character) can really call a friend.

Second, the scene before featured Stock doing nothing particularly heroic or companionable. No last huzzah or random oaths of friendship to tip the reader off. He was just there and now he isn't.

Third, (and this is very closely connected with second) shock. This is where Lloyd Alexander breaks the rules. He begins the passage leading up to the death with “The next week Stock dies”. Yes, yes he does. He tells. I had to read that sentence again the first time. But it gets worse. He then proceeds with narrative summery as he explains how Stock left on a routine raid, how long it took of him not coming back before the commander decided to send a party after him, how Theo insisted on being in that party, how long it took them to find the remains of the battlefield. All in a paragraph or two while the reader hopes illogically that they misunderstood the sentence in the beginning of the scene because it was so straightforward and had nothing (apparent) leading up to it. Then Theo find what you knew he would and it is Stock and he is dead.

Fourth, (or maybe this is the reason those two sentences needed to be so poignant?) is Theo's reaction. Until this point he has been as much a pacifist as someone technically fighting a war can be. He winces when spies are shot and prisoners are interrogated and hasn't actually killed anyone himself. But when he sees his friend's body he takes charge of the scouting party and slaughters the enemy soldiers responsible. The reader doesn't blame him. They loved Stock too.

Could I write six death scenes this strong in the closing chapters of my manuscript? I'm not sure I should try. For one thing it would be exhausting. For the reader as much as for me. But mostly because this was a major turning point in The Kestrel's plot. Six major turning points in the last five chapters? Too much. I can only focus on the deaths in the way that they impact the surviving characters and shape the direction of the plot. Anything else is going to be repetitive.