Status: Cooked breakfast for the
loveliest couple—and had to break out my French. Why should I travel to Europe
when Europe will simply come to me?
When I was younger, I spent approximately three years
writing DSS (which does not stand for Dumb Stupid Story), and like I said
before, it was chock full of tiresome clichés, overworked metaphors, and loads
of pretentious foppery. Of course, during that time, I spent hours poring over
writing advice and editing advice, and I loved learning about what I hoped
would one day become my job. But my research hardly made an ounce of
difference. All those well-meaning words—they passed through me like souls on
their way to the other world.
I did tell myself that I wanted to make my book as
good as possible—my problem was that I didn’t see any faults to begin with. How
could I perfect something that was already perfect? My maternal feelings
crushed my inner editor. When I got feedback, I invariably disagreed. Every
line struck through one of my beautiful sentences was hateful, written by
someone with little literary taste and questionable parentage. How could a mere
reader know anything of writing and art? Believe you me, Spock would not have
approved. (And yes, I realize he’s not a real person. There’s no need to rub it
in.)
For those of you who aren’t Trekkies (for shame),
Spock is Vulcan—a race known for its logic. He sees everything as black and
white, and is not prone to sentimental human error. Why does this matter? you must surely be asking by now, as you
slide your cursor toward the exit button. What
on earth does this have to do with writing?
Well, I’m getting there.
After I realized DSS was going nowhere fast, I decided
to take a temporary hiatus from fantasy and revive an old science fiction flame
that had been brewing in my mind since birth (or something like that). In the
space of a single, highly-caffeinated NaNoWriMo, I wrote TIB (and no, it does
not stand for The Interesting Book). It clocked in at 160,060 words, and it was
both ungainly and imprecise, much like this sentence. At that point, I had two
choices: I could go ahead and
edit—polish the sentences without touching the structure—or I could gut the
unseemly creature then and there. For such an obvious decision, it was
surprisingly difficult.
In order to progress, I had to sit down and write a list, which I will
share in modified form because I love lists.
1) My
dearest Lizzie, if you are not pleased with the bulk of your work, even after
preliminary edits, maybe there’s a reason why. Never pass up on the chance to
doubt yourself.
2) My
dearest Lizzie, this isn’t the time to be lazy—hard work now means less work
later. (Yes, I’m just full of pithy
quotes.)
3) My
dearest Lizzie, cultivate a logical viewpoint, like Spock. Recognize your story’s
weaknesses, but don’t be overwhelmed by them. It doesn’t matter how much you’re
in love with a given scene—if it doesn’t add any value, then it has to go. To
borrow a Spockism, “The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.”
I know it’s hard—it’s wicked hard to take criticism,
to find fault with your work, to look at your best and realize it isn’t good
enough. (All aspiring writers should have their heads checked—we are
undoubtedly insane.) Under all the pressure—under all the strain of destroying
my darling—I almost snapped. I almost cut my losses and moved on. But what
helped me was a child’s game. I slipped out of the role of proud author and
into the role of Spock. I played pretend. Hewing my manuscript down to size became
a game (which makes me sound a lot more violent than I actually am). Now, I’m
not recommending a total break from reality—but swapping my viewpoint with
another for that brief space of time was the best choice I could have possibly
made. Sure, my sentimental side screamed in agony…until I stuffed her face with
chocolate. And my distractible side was ready to write something newer and
shinier. All in all, though, holding the nine-millionth draft of my manuscript—after
seemingly endless bouts of searching for those nasty little typos that go
around adding themselves when I’m not looking—was well worth the agony. And now, my mind to your mind, my thoughts
to your thoughts.
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