It’s been nearly a year since I last published a post here. I have a slew of drafts in various states of completion, but none of them ever felt compelling enough to finish and share. Lately, though, I’ve been pondering the meaning of identifying as “a writer,” and feeling mostly downtrodden.
I will always write, in one form or another, but it’s become increasingly difficult for me to feel like I could be a Writer. In my head, a Writer is not even necessarily an Author (whom I consider a person who has written a novel/book and had it published), but is at least someone who gets paid for their work. Given that definition, will I ever be a capital-W Writer? I don’t know.
I love to write. I think I’m even reasonably good at it (though there is plenty of room for improvement, particularly in plotting), but the self-doubt trolls have been throwing a party inside my skull for months now. Given the vast list of other things I have to do every day, though, writing tends to slip to the bottom of the list, until I have no mental fortitude left for the creativity. And the longer I let making inroads on my WIP slip, the harder it gets to force myself back into that headspace.
Every once in a while I manage to latch onto a new idea that has potential to become something useful in my story. For a few minutes (maybe hours, or—if I’m super lucky—days) I feel that spark again, and think there might be hope for my poor novel yet. But then I have to go get groceries, or take my kids to music lessons, or pay bills, or any of a hundred other things that come with being the chatelaine of the estate (that’s how I try to think of it; it makes me feel better than considering myself a “homemaker”).
If I’ve learned anything about myself since I started writing fiction, it’s that I need long stretches of time to dedicate to writing. It takes me an inordinate amount of time to settle into the proper headspace, and if something interrupts me, I have to start the process all over. That’s a tricky thing to have to balance with chatelaine duties.
I keep finding myself hoping things will improve once school starts back up for my kids, but a tiny, nasty part of my brain keeps whispering that it won’t help. I read about what some of the Writers I follow on social media—Authors, even—do in order to carve out their writing time, and I think, “I’ll never have that kind of glorious obsession.” I don’t think I have the temperament to work that way.
So I wonder if there will ever be room for a person like me—distractible, painfully slow, far from young, and without a writing workshop or publication credit to my name (to date)—in the meat grinder that is the publishing industry. Maybe there isn’t.
Then again, maybe there is, even if I have to play the part of the Tortoise. All I can do is “keep on keepin’ on” (as my mother would say) and hope that by continuing to be a writer (which I can’t help) that someday I can be a Writer. And if not, then at least I haven’t let the self-doubt trolls trample me to death.
One of the more common pieces of writing advice one sees is “finish what you start.” The idea, as I understand it, is that if a writer never learns to follow through on a project, they will never make it “in the business” (after all, how can one get anything published if there’s nothing complete to submit?).
And so, for nearly three years, I have slaved away at my WIP with varying degrees of dedication. Having decided to try my hand at fiction writing for the first time, I sketched out a short story or two (more character pieces than actual story, in retrospect) in October before jumping into the NaNoWriMo challenge in November. That was 2012.
As anyone could have predicted, the resulting draft was a hot mess. I won’t even bother to outline any of the details of how truly stinky it was, but suffice to say that even three years on, I cringe when I think back on it (let alone subject myself to rereading). But it was a draft! And a draft can always be revised, right?
I set to work, first with utter naïveté, and later with a slightly clearer picture of the task ahead. I took some classes, acquired some wonderful critique partners (CPs), and kept plugging away. Finish what you start.
The further along I got, the more my craft improved (I’m still pretty green as a storyteller—let’s not kid ourselves—but I can be taught). The more my craft improved, the more I recognized the flaws in my narrative (even though my CPs often had to point them out to me). The more flaws I found, the more chunks I cut out, rewrote, and pasted back into place with copious PlotSpackle™.
It’s been my goal to get a working manuscript ready for querying by the end of calendar 2015. Things like moving house and being primary caregiver for kids home from school for the summer have slowed down my progress, but I decided to ease my way back into a writing habit by using September as #MeNoRevMo (that’s “justMe Novel Revising Month”), in which the goal was to spend one hour each day on revising my WIP. Finish what you start.
The funny thing about actively working to improve your craft, though, is that sometimes lessons take you by surprise. I was privileged enough to be among the students of Nisi Shawl and K Tempest Bradford for their first online version of their “Writing the Other” course (as mentioned in my previous post). Our final exercise, to be completed several weeks after the end of the course, involved submitting a piece of a WIP for critique by our classmates and instructors.
Talk about “tough love.”
My submission was (rightfully) panned. Nothing mean—or untrue—was said, but all the issues I’d been trying so valiantly to pretend weren’t a problem anymore got called out. The average person off the street might not notice issues with a pretty, new house (though they’d know whether or not they like it), but someone in the construction business will be able to tell immediately if its been shoddily built. Similarly, my PlotSpackle™ and paint weren’t fooling more accomplished writers.
I’ve been sitting with the feedback for a little while now, and after finally being able to distance myself enough from the work, I have seen the wisdom of the advice I was given: it may be time to set aside this particular WIP.
There is a lot that is dear to me in this story, but if I’m honest with myself, I’ve always known that its plot is a mess. Perhaps after I’ve taken some time to distance myself from it, I can come back and examine which of the underlying ideas are still sound—strip the story down to the studs. If there’s enough left on which to build a new structure, perhaps I’ll begin again, and try to create something that’s sturdy first, and make it pretty after.
In the meantime, it’s time not to finish what I started.
Over the last year and a half or so, my life turned into the real estate equivalent of a soap opera.
In March 2014, we put our house on the market, and “sold” it (had a purchase agreement in place) by early June. Closing was set for 01 August. A week before closing, our buyers told us they wouldn’t be able to close on time due to circumstances beyond their control (financial snafu).
So we waited for it to get sorted out until we got sick of it (and we lost the house that we were going to buy and move into), then put it back on the market. A second buyer eventually emerged, but canceled within a week. We said, “screw it” and pulled the property from the market.
Fast forward to March 2015. The house goes back on the market on a Wednesday; by Thursday night we have a signed purchase agreement. Within another couple of weeks we’ve made an offer on a new house for ourselves, and the paperwork is signed there, too. Everything goes smoothly this time, and over Memorial Day (last Monday of May) weekend, we move out of the old place and into the new.
Keep in mind that (a) we’d effectively been living out of boxes since mid-July 2014 and (b) it will take us many more months yet to finish unpacking. Needless to say, I’ve not exactly been in a prime writing headspace. So yes, it’s been more than fourteen months since my last blog post here. Apologies.
In those fourteen months, though, I’ve not been entirely lax. I’ve taken a couple of online classes at The Loft Literary Center and with the brilliant writers K. Tempest Bradford and Nisi Shawl. The latter, “Writing the Other” (WtO; based on the text of the same name by Shawl and Cynthia Ward), is being offered again this fall. I highly recommend it to all writers. If nothing else, it will introduce you to a cadre of like-minded writers who can serve as sounding boards and resources in their own right.
As for the status of my work in progress, the going is still slow, but thanks to the constant support and feedback from my critique partners—as well as new input from my WtO classmates—it is taking ever better shape. In January, it was my goal to have my ms ready for querying by the end of 2015, but that’s looking more and more like too tall an order. Time will tell.
So real estate really screwed up both my regular writing schedule and my blogging here. I would like to think I’m “over the hump” and can natter on about my writing journey here more regularly again now. With my kids’ school starting up in a couple more weeks, hopefully writing will slide back into my schedule more naturally all around.
I’ll keep you posted!
A writer new to the industry hears a lot of rules and guidelines, do’s and don’t’s about how to craft a novel. None of these are hard and fast, though one is encouraged to understand why the same “rules” crop up again and again before going off willy-nilly to break them. There needs to be a compelling reason to ignore all that advice.
I think one of my CPs just gave me a compelling reason.
Since its inception, my current novel has contained flashbacks. In and of themselves, flashbacks aren’t considered a no-no, though some readers have a distinct aversion to them. Because I wanted to sprinkle specific information into my story without starting the thing years beforehand, or slipping it awkwardly into dialog, I took the (quasi-)calculated risk of utilizing flashbacks.
However—and this is especially true of the first one, which currently appears extremely early in the narrative—they can have a jarring effect on the reader. So how do I include that information without pulling my reader out of the story? The answer may just be another of those novelling taboos: the dreaded prologue.
The objection to prologues, as I understand it, is that they often indicate the writer has simply started their story in the wrong place. Why start your story twice (once at the prologue, once at Chapter One)? This argument has always made sense to me, and I regret to admit I’d always felt rather smug that I hadn’t fallen into the prologue trap.
Now, though, I’m seriously considering going there. The inciting incident for my story actually happens weeks before the meat of the plot begins. Putting that catalyst to adventure right up front in a prologue instead of waiting to revisit it in a flashback several chapters in makes perfect sense now that it’s been suggested. I think doing so will create a stronger whole.
I just hope some agent or editor somewhere thinks so some day, too.
I had never realized just how thoroughly I pants my way through stories.
When I began Novel #1, it was a NaNoWriMo project. I’d had the overall arc in my head for years—maybe as long as a decade—but just hadn’t ever put anything in writing. It made for an exhilarating experience when that November rolled around, and I finally spewed whatever came to mind, day after day, just to get to that final word count goal.
Revision became quite the task then, because events hadn’t been well (or at all) planned, and lots of details had to get cut or added to make sense of the damn thing. But in its own way, that was an exploratory process, too, and it’s been another painful, rewarding experience.
Before I started Novel #2, a couple of short story ideas cropped up, and so I pursued them. Trying to be more methodical about the whole thing, I decided to try outlining the shape of a story before diving in. Before I could get farther than the Big Idea of the story, though, words came to me. Desperate not to lose them, I hurried to make notes. Next thing I knew, I had half of the story drafted. “I’m new to short stories,” I told myself. “I can plot out the next one.”
Sadly, the next one evaded me. Using my inborn stubbornness to my advantage, I turned instead to Novel #2. “This one I simply can’t start without a good outline. Rewriting the whole damn thing was too hard the first time.” Duly self-instructed, I’ve been doing my damnedest to flesh out the ideas that have been floating so carelessly through my subconscious.
Much to my dismay, ideas are few and far between.
Based on the rest of my life, I’d not have pegged myself as a Pantser. It seems I always need a Plan (though I’m not as desperate for one as some in my family). So I’ve been somewhat boggled to realize just how difficult I find it to brainstorm ideas without writing out scenes. It’s been a mental adjustment to stop considering myself a Plotter, but the evidence is overwhelming; I find it much harder to plan ahead than to see where the words lead me.
Given my experience with Novel #1, though, I can’t stomach the idea of another painful slog through ground-level revisions. I refuse to let the easy road now dictate my future path. So it’s time to brew some more coffee, put in my earplugs, and get on with it. I will conquer this plot yet.
I’ve been quiet here lately. I’d like to say it’s because I’m so busy writing awesome things, but that would be a partial truth at best. That nasty little “Real Life” thing keeps getting in the way of my more esoteric pursuits, like updating this blog, so while I have been working on my novel, it’s more accurate to say I’ve been absent because real estate concerns have been eating my brain.
Enough of that, though—I’ve reached a new, exciting, scary point in my process! All of my chapters have been revised and reviewed by my CPs, and revisions based on their feedback have been made. Now I’ve submitted the entire last chunk of the novel to them for review as a whole, and once they’ve had a chance to read and comment and I’ve made revisions based on that feedback, I’ll hand the entire manuscript back to them to read as a single unit. It’s a thrilling place to be, though still scary to think I may have missed something important along the way. The biggest change from my perspective, though, is that I don’t have anything else to work on in this story while I await comments. What do I do with myself now?
Every writer knows the obvious answer: go work on the next thing. I’m just not sure what my “next thing” is.
I could work on a new short story. I saw another writing contest/call for submissions recently that looked cool, but would require me to create an entirely new story. New stories are good—except that I kind of suck at devising storylines. I can find story seeds pretty easily, but I have difficulty molding them into feasible plots.
Which leads me to my other option: plotting out my next novel. This route feels more likely to bear fruit, yet is incredibly daunting. I’m still polishing my first novel; I know full well how important a logical, engaging plot is. I’ve also never been good at writing outlines; I tend to think of ideas for actual text and dive into writing before I have a road map. Obviously, there are pros and cons to that method, but given my experience this time through, I really want a clear sense of where I’m going before I set off on this journey.
So here I sit with my Save the Cat! beat sheet and my list of stages along the Hero’s Journey, trying desperately to solidify what plot points are already flitting about my head and bring others into being to create a cohesive whole. Given that brainstorming doesn’t lead to words on the page, the part of me that monitors whether or not I’m working has been jangling its alarms—a state of affairs not conducive to clear thought. It’s a struggle to recalibrate my Procrasto-Meter™ and get on with things.
I’m sure I’m not the only writer facing this challenge, but enticing one’s muses into action feels like a lonely road. I just need to buckle down and walk it. So wish me luck—I’ll need it.
I’m getting down to the last couple of chapters here in Round Two of major revisions. All the plot wrinkles that I’ve ironed out through the rest of the manuscript have bunched up here at the end, and are proving more irksome than I’d naïvely anticipated. On the one hand, it’s frustrating to see how much I still need to do, but on the other, it’s actually encouraging to know I have learned enough since I first wrote this chapter to improve it so markedly.
The biggest stumbling block in the chapter to this point has been the spot where—I finally realized—I broke the pact with my reader and completely glossed over an important moment that should have contained serious plot and character development. One moment it’s all “what if we tried this?” and the next it’s “and now we’re at the denouement!” No sense of struggle, of the protagonist having to work for the end result—nothing.
Today I finally muscled past it. It’s not pretty, or smooth, but I’ve drafted a patch. Score one for me! I was all set to do another micro-draft dance when I read on to the next half-page.
Another half a chapter lies ahead, and within those pages, another non-negligible obstacle awaits. Now one of my supporting characters (or maybe two or three) has to change his reaction to events in order to be consistent with changes earlier in the story. The entire shape of the resolution needs to be different, and I’m not entirely sure how to mold it. (For some inexplicable reason, I’m now put in mind of a mold for some sort of garden statuary—and my brain has chosen to insert the form of a reindeer. My denouement has become a lawn ornament…)
So I’ve got quite a bit more work to do on this chapter, and I have only the vaguest idea what the reindeer should look like. Guess I’ll start by shoving four plot-legs on it, and hope it comes out looking vaguely quadrupedal; I can save the antlers for a later version.
Time to roll up my sleeves—I need to start massaging that word clay!
Beginning Writer Achievement Unlocked: first rejection letter!
I hadn’t really expected to reach this milestone so soon; in my head, I’d always assumed I wouldn’t be sending things out to get rejected until my novel manuscript was ready. A glorious fit of optimism overcame me, though, when Women Destroy Fantasy! was announced, and I set aside the novel long enough to write a short story I could submit. I was actually fairly pleased with the results, even after beating my head against the desk during the revision process.
In the end, about 4900 words stared at me and politely suggested I send them on to their intended destination. I fidgeted and fussed over the cover letter and finally gave in, sending my little darling off into the æther. I told myself it had a newt’s chance in a supernova of being accepted, and tried to maintain a healthy balance between cautious optimism and callous realism.
It still hurt when the rejection came.
I suppose now I can consider myself a bona fide writer; I’ve not only put words on paper (well… electrons), but I’ve sent them out to an actual publisher and had them summarily dismissed. It’s a rite of passage for every writer, right? I know there’s more to come, and I need to get used to it. It’ll only get worse before it gets better—and the only way for it to get better is to keep at it.
So now I have a short story that needs a home. I’ll need to collect a list of other possible venues for it, and start sending out more submissions. I’ve heard that the only reason anyone doesn’t get published is that they give up. Maybe this story will never see the light of day, but it will serve a purpose nonetheless. I’ve got to build up the emotional calluses necessary to keep putting my work out there time and again, right?
Well, the first abrasions against my tender psyche have initiated the process. Only about a million more to go.
Having finished my short story as much as possible before getting feedback, I’ve moved back to the revisions on the last couple of chapters of the novel. On the up side, I can tell I’ve grown as a writer since I first wrote these chapters. On the down side… Damn.
Because of the revisions to earlier sections of the plot, by the time I got back to the ending, several things obviously had to be adjusted. The chapter I finished reworking yesterday had to be ripped apart, and stitched back together Frankenstein-style. Certain chunks remained, though often in quite different sequence from before, and many others had to be added in from whole cloth.
That proved a grueling exercise, though I got something mostly useable by the end. Once I moved onto today’s chapter (Ch X), though, it was a different story.
Ch X is, by and large, still viable as written in terms of plot. However, there’s little or no tension in the text. As I read through it to re-familiarize myself with it and determine what needs revision, I realized the climax—the bit that the entire rest of the book leads to—had been utterly glossed over in a couple of sentences. There’s no sense of effort, of the protagonist’s struggle to accomplish this huge deed. Just “Voop! There ya go!” and it’s all over but the exposition.
Obviously, that needs to change. Who wants to read “voop!” at the end of all that other stuff? There needs to be a payoff for whatever emotional investment the reader has made. I count myself lucky that I figured that out before handing it off to my CPs; as I said above, it’s proof of my growth.
So, note to self: needz moar cowbell. Get on that.
Today I feel like maybe this go-be-a-writer idea of mine wasn’t such a bad one I after all…
Having learned about Women Destroy Science Fiction! via Twitter, I backed the Kickstarter campaign. I can’t honestly remember now how early I backed it, but it was definitely before the first extra-issue stretch goal (Women Destroy Horror!) had been met. I watched with avid interest as the funding level crept upwards, and told myself if they funded the Women Destroy Fantasy! issue, I’d write something to submit.
Well, the other backers sure called my bluff. The original WDSF! goal was only $5000. To unlock the WDH! issue, the campaign needed $25k, and for the WDF! issue it needed $35k. By the time the funding period ended, backers had blown another $18k past that final stretch goal. Time to ante up.
So I sat down for the first time ever with the express intention of writing a short story I could submit for possible publication. I brainstormed from my idea nugget, pleased that I’d had an idea outside of my novel’s universe. Before I knew it, though, those pesky dryads had finagled themselves back into this story, too. I threw up my hands and capitulated. They rewarded me with expanded ideas.
Throughout the drafting process, I continually surprised myself—sometimes pleasantly (I really like one of the main conceits in the middle of the story), sometimes less so (I started by plotting it ahead of time, but within minutes I was pantsing my way into the first act). By the time I’d finished a working draft I could send to my CPs for workshopping, I felt like I had the start of something worth submitting.
Heaven only knows whether or not the thing will ever see the light of day. I’ve about a newt’s chance in a supernova of it making it into the WDF! issue (there are four slots available, and they’ll be getting hundreds—if not thousands—of submissions), but I don’t plan to stop there. If Fantasy Magazine gives it a pass, and so does Lightspeed (to which all submissions that don’t make it into WDF! will also be sent for consideration), I’ll spam it out to other publications. It’s about time I started racking up rejections.
Then I can truly claim to be a Writer.