My Writing Process Doesn't Exist

Fair warning, coffee beans, this is going to be a long post. So buckle in and make sure to keep your arms and legs inside the vehicle at all times.

Now that I’ve edited two complete novels and am close to finishing my third, not to mention my various editing dalliances and numerous rough drafts along the way, I feel like I have a bit more perspective on my writing process than I did when I started this blog. That means it’s time to confront some of my overconfidence.

There’s nothing like finishing your first novel to make you think you know what you’re doing. You wrote a book. You conquered. Now you are equipped to sit sagely, handing out advice, telling others how to climb their own mountains, banish their own demons, etc, etc. It becomes uncomfortably obvious that you don’t actually know what you’re talking about when your own advice doesn’t help you write your next book.

I’ve noticed a pattern with myself. Every time I write something, big or small, I end up thinking I know who I am as a writer, how my process works. But this is a stultifying, dangerous perspective, because it limits my ability to move forward.

When I finished TIB, I knew that I was a writer who drafted in chronological order, who wrote quickly and edited quickly, who needed a minimal number of drafts. I looked at my success and told myself, okay, whipping out a book each year is easy. Knowing that I hadn’t pushed myself as hard as I could with TIB meant I could probably even manage two books per year. (Wow, Liz. Wow. I did not raise you to be this arrogant.)

Through that experience, I learned a great deal about the mechanics of my editing process, which I consider to be, in many ways, divorced from my writing process. How I approach the editing itself has never changed. I rewrite everything word for word. I subtract in the second draft, add in the third. My brain works well with that sort of structure. But the way I go about editing—the broader picture, how I approach the draft as a whole—differs.

There were things I learned through the TIB experience that I thought were steadfast aspects of my writerly identity. I got up early—4:00 am early—every morning, and wrote with my Earl Grey in bed, listening to music. I wrote after school, until supper, and after supper I wrote more. Weekends I worked late into the night after watching Star Trek. I was a writing machine.

After TIB, I picked up DRACONIAN, and I thought, with all this new knowledge and, gasp, expertise that I have garnered, surely this will be a breeze. Spoilers. It was a breeze in the way that a hurricane force wind that rips your clothes off and lands you a free trampoline in your demolished backyard could be considered a breeze. What’s worse is that the whole experience was deceptively fun at first. Drafting it was straightforward. Even the first round of editing wasn’t so horrible, though it took longer than I had planned. I was still pleased with my story, still confident that I knew what I was doing.

Then disaster struck. It was inevitable, a land slide that started ages before, whose rumblings I chose to ignore. The whole time I was working on DRACONIAN, I was querying agents for TIB. I think I sent out letters for six months to a year. I don’t remember the exact timeline, but it was a while. I received a stream of rejections for even longer than that. One came five months or so after I marked it off as an assumed rejection. I could give you more accurate numbers, but opening that Excel spread sheet is a walk in a different sort of park, the kind where you need to carry shivs and mace and everyone looks at you like you would be fun to murder.

I received an onslaught of rejections. Had I so desired, I could have printed them out and folded enough origami swans to have like, fifty origami swans. (Seriously, how am I not published?)

I experienced some life changes around this time. I graduated high school, got my first job. Then I moved to Virginia and started rooming with my sister. Like, literally rooming. Our first apartment was a single room, with a bathroom and a shared kitchen. All of these various events made my 4:30/4:00 am mornings first improbable, then impossible. I think it was easy to let that routine go, to not fight for it, and then to tell myself that I was failing at writing because, see, I wasn’t able to get up early in the mornings anymore.

What made the whole situation more unbearable is that I had a beta reader, on what I think was the third draft, who hated my book and tore it to shreds. I had it in my mind that you are allowed to ignore beta feedback you don’t think will make your story better, but you aren’t allowed to ignore feedback out of spite or because you’re hurt by it. I figured that I had to overcompensate for my emotions by listening to everything she said, no matter how untrue it felt to my story. Eventually I reached a point, some ten thousand words before the end, when I finally realized that if I looked at another one of her critiques, I was probably going to delete my entire draft.

When I handed my poor, battered book-child off to my next critique partner, this time my sister, she pointed out that all the edits I had input in the name of responding well to criticism had caused my book to take a massive step backwards. I don’t want to write a harangue on beta readers, because they are a necessary part of the process, but it really shook me, the whole experience, has made me a lot slower to seek out feedback from strangers, even vetted ones.

In 2017 I got DRACONIAN to the point where I felt it was as close to done as I could make it, so I started querying. I think I sent out around twelve query letters before realizing they all had a pretty glaring typo in them, which I had somehow missed even when I tried to fix it. I think that, more than anything, shows me how horrible my eating disorder brain fog was. And I was still trying to function like I was at 100%.

I didn’t hear back from most of those agents. One super sweet, super kind agent gave me some light, personalized feedback on my first fifty pages, and she said basically what I had been fearing, that, among other things, my world building needed more work.

I didn’t make any sort of set decision, but it just kind of happened naturally. I always meant to send out more queries, did the research on more agents, prepped more letters. I never sent them. (Don’t despair. I haven’t trunked DRACONIAN. I have another editing update that I plan to post soon.)

The lesson from that whole experience, as I saw it through the lens of how I felt as a writer post TIB, is that my writing process worked, but that I was broken. I couldn’t stick to the roadmap, so something must have been wrong with my vision.

I’m not going to argue that there was one single thing that I did wrong in the process with DRACONIAN that, if avoided, would have altered the entire course of events. There were so many things that went wrong, and there were additional factors that were out of my control.

But let’s move on to HIRAETH. I drafted HIRAETH out of order, just threw everything on the page, and none of it made sense, but all of it was exhilarating. The adults had exited the building; I could do whatever I wanted. I could make as much of a mess as I needed to in order to draft the thing, because I didn’t have to clean it up in any sort of hurry. My only plan for the story, at that point, was to share it on this blog someday, maybe, if it was good, if I felt like it. Zero pressure for me to perform. That release made it fun for me, made the story a refuge, something secret I got to keep for myself.

What I’ve learned, I think, is that my writing process doesn’t exist. With TIB, I wrote how I felt I was supposed to write, in order, quickly, with more confidence than was my due. With DRACONIAN, I thought that I could apply the same mold and get the same results. I thought I could ignore everyone saying your sophomore novel is the one that makes you want to quit, because I thought I was special and therefore exempt.

Here is something that you should know. You are allowed to write however you want, and you don’t have to have any set way you do things. Whatever works for you in the moment is your writing process. You can write at home for one book, at a coffee shop for another, in your unsuspecting neighbor’s basement for your next. Whatever gets the words on the page.

I think it’s maybe a bad idea to label yourself as a panster or a plotter, to force yourself into that dichotomy. If that works for you, awesome, and if you want the label, then wear it proudly. I spent so long telling myself that I was a panster that I never even let myself try plotting, except with the understanding that it was something I would hate. It’s hard to explain that brain space. Your subconscious takes over, turns your preconceived notions into rules which you follow to your detriment. You don’t like something because you tell yourself you don’t like it.

I outlined HIRAETH. True, I did so after the fact, when I had a handful of random scenes I was juggling, when I had to bring some semblance of order to the words on the page, but that was something I would have never even let myself consider before.

That’s what I’m trying with BMT, outlining, writing out of order, pantsing, a little bit of everything. For the first time in four years with this book, I think I finally see a hint of light at the end of the tunnel. (Although it’s weird, because I keep hearing these choo choo noises. Anyone know what that’s about?)

All this being said, it wouldn’t surprise me if, three years down the line, I decide to write a new post about how wrong I am in this one. So this is nothing definite, just something I am mulling over. But writing it down has helped me put my thoughts in order, and I hope reading it will help you too.


That’s it for today, coffee beans. What are some misconceptions you have had about your writing process along the way?

NaNoWriMo Prep #3 // A Cautionary Tale

This NaNoWriMo, as you strive to write however many thousands of words you hope to manage, it helps to remember: 

You can edit later. 

I have mentioned this in previous posts, I am sure, but it bears repeating, so I’m going to say it again. And again. And again. Until it sticks in your skull as well as mine. 

You can edit later. 

I know there are authors who find they need to edit their novels as they go (Gail Carson Levine, for instance), so I am not saying ABSOLUTELY, UNEQUIVOCALLY DO NOT EDIT AS YOU WRITE. But I am saying pause. I am saying consider. NaNoWriMo, at its core, is meant to help you break free from writing ruts. It’s meant to help you rip the bandaid off and get writing done, even if it feels unnatural. Because it will. You are by no means going to come away from this with a polished novel, so don't expect to. 

Story time.

You have seen me refer to to TIB, which I drafted in November 2013, as the first rough draft I managed to finish. I have chosen to consider it this way, even though I technically—very technically—finished two books before then. That’s what we’re talking about today. 

When I was twelve, almost thirteen, I was given a writing assignment in literature class. As these things go, I started writing the story and realized it was the beginning of a trilogy. What can I say? This is typical of me. I have a collection of short story ideas, and sometimes I pick away at them, but I am always a little scared I will get a seven book series from the next one I touch. This might be why I have trust issues. 

It took me almost a year to write the sort-of-rough-draft for DSS 1 (now DRACONIAN), because I wrote it chapter by chapter, editing as I went (and also because the computer broke halfway through, resulting in several months of unexpected, unwanted writing vacation). 

Even when I was that young, my mother recognized how much I wanted to become a published author, so she tailored my curriculum around that goal. On top of all my other schoolwork, she assigned me roughly an hour of writing a day. In order to be able to give me credit for my work, she read each chapter as I finished it, then made revision notes. Essentially, she guided me through writing my first novel, which is one of the reasons I don’t count it as my first official rough draft. But more on that later. 

When I tackled DSS 2 on my own, I resuming editing as I went even though I felt like it was blocking me. And I ended up cutting it off at 40K without tying up the plot lines. After that, I only made it 18K into DSS 3 before hitting a wall. 

In late 2012, I decided to attack DSS, to write a new rough draft of the entire trilogy using the original work like an outline, because I thought that would help me figure out what was blocking me. I made it about 50K in before I hit another wall. I would edit a portion, only to realize I needed to go back and reedit that section as the story evolved beneath my fingers. An editing session that felt successful one day would seem slapdash the next. It killed my writing mojo. 

Come November 2013, I decided to participate in NaNoWriMo with a new novel, a palate cleanse of sorts. I was nervous, because I didn't know if I would even be able to make the 50K, or if I would manage to write anything worthwhile. To my surprise, I ended the month with an entire trilogy (which I later cut down and consolidated into one novel, TIB). It was the most freeing thing to realize that I could power through rough drafts without getting bogged down by edits, that I could finish a project without spending forever backtracking. 

By the time November 2014 rolled around, DSS was starting to nag at the back of my head again, big time. Because it wanted to be finished. By golly, it demanded to be finished. So I picked up where I had left off and wrote the rest of the entire trilogy, a whole new rough draft, red and raw and not at all polished. Just word vomit on the page. And man it was horrible. And man it was the best thing that could ever have happened to that story. No more ripping the carpet out from under my feet. Just forward motion, like a truck plowing through a hoard of zombies. 

All told, I have been working on this trilogy since December 2009. For those of you who aren’t so good at math, that is almost seven years. SEVEN YEARS. My goodness, no wonder I feel like I’m going insane. 

It has taught me so much. Patience. Confidence and tough love. Technique. How to hide a body. (What? How did that get in there?) But the biggest thing it has taught me is the importance of maintaining momentum, of finishing a thing before I start judging it. I don’t regret the help I received while writing DSS 1. I needed that. But the point I’m trying to make here is that I wasted several of those seven years trying to force myself to use a system I knew was no longer working for me, to the point where I risked editing DRACONIAN to death (and this is coming from someone who likes editing). That is why I consider TIB my first official rough draft, because it was the first draft I completed without backtracking and getting lost along the way. It was the turning point, the place where I realized I could actually do this writing thing. That is why I love NaNoWriMo more than is probably healthy. 

So this November, as you plunge into NaNoWriMo full speed ahead, please remember this. Remember to lock your inner editor up in a cage full of disgruntled chipmunks until you are ready to sign over control once more. You can do this without the red pen. I believe in you. Be free this month. Be messy. Be brave. 

What about you, my little coffee beans? Have you struggled with the urge to edit as you write? What are some of your regrets in your writing journey? What are some things you feel you’ve done right?

The Trunk of Doom

Source

By this point, I realize I have somewhat of a reputation for bursting out with random, emotional blog posts from time to time. In a way, blogging has become a second form of journaling for me. Today, though, we’re going to talk about an issue I haven’t covered in my journal yet, which is atypical, because I usually go to my journal before I go to you. (I know, favoritism is bad. Please forgive me.) 

You know I love writing. (I also hate it, but love and hate are fraternal twins and they like to meet up for coffee sometimes.) If you’ve read many of my older posts, you might know about TIB, the book I began querying agents for two Novembers ago. You might also know about DSS, the book I have been revising for the past two years. (I have worked on it longer, but that’s irrelevant. My serious work on it began 11/1/14.) 

Before I say much more, I think it’s important that we do a run through of my writing history, so you understand the full weight of what I am saying here. 

You may know some of these details from posts like this. I started writing when I was a little seven-year-old living in Africa with a bunch of other missionaries from various countries. My English teacher was a sweet and proper Northern Irish woman who taught me to love writing more than I have loved anything else. During that time, when seven-year-old me felt ripped away from all that was familiar and secure, my teacher showed me an absolute safe-haven, and I made camp there. 

I wrote a trilogy of picture books during my time in Africa, books about a horse named Bessie who escapes her abusive master and finds love and a home and even an adoptive mother. There is mystery and mayhem and even some kidnapping and detective work. I had started on a fourth book, a prequel to the trilogy (that was before I even understood that this was a popular thing to do). I remember those stories so well, but I have not touched them in over twelve years because I left them in Africa when we evacuated. I didn’t mean to. But they were buried under piles of school papers on my messy desk (why did I have to be so messy?), and we had to pack so quickly. I didn’t even remember to dig them up, because I was so focused on trying to choose which beloved stuffed animal I had to leave behind, which beloved blanket I was going to abandon, which beloved books I would never see again. I could only salvage 10 kilograms of my life in that place, so I was busy mourning that I didn’t have room for my horse figurine or my pink, plastic alligator, or my precious, precious music box. 

I do not delude myself into thinking my writings are still there, waiting for me to come back. In all likeliness, they have been burned or used as toilet paper, because they would have been of little worth to the people cleaning out my old house. My home is not waiting for me, and I will not go back. I loved Africa. Leaving it ripped a hole in my heart that has never closed. Sometimes I get so homesick, it almost knocks me off my feet, and it has been more than half my lifetime since I returned to American soil. But I will never go back (unless God wants me to), because I will never be able to make things the way they were when we left. I will never get back the people and the community that made Africa so special to me. I will never get to tend my snail collection, or push my bike through the blue gate, or let my new puppy nibble on my fingers. The puppy belongs to someone else now, as do the bike and the gate. Africa belongs to someone else now. Almost everything that made Africa special to me is gone, along with my first writings. 

I have a wonderful memory. I can see the pages in my head, the poorly-drawn cartoon horses, the handwriting that I couldn’t keep in a straight line across the paper, the smudgy bits where my hand slid over the pencil marks too many times, and the places where I began to trace everything in with pen so it would last, so I would be able to keep it in readable condition forever. I remember it so well, I could try to recreate everything, if I wanted to. And there is a part of me that desperately wants to replace that lost piece of me, just as there is a part of me that desperately wants to go home. But recreating the story would be like going back to Africa and trying to force myself into an old groove that doesn’t fit me anymore—isn’t meant for me anymore. And I think it would hurt me so much, because I would pretend to myself that everything is the same, that everything is okay. 

You don’t get to go back. Not ever. And I need to not pretend about these things. I need to not lie to myself when the truth is what sets me free. 

As I grew older, I wrote off and on. Writing was always important to me, but it didn’t always take precedence. At the top of my list of struggles was lack of follow-through. I didn’t finish reading books. I didn’t finish writing them. I didn’t finish thinking certain thoughts. Instead, I put a lot of stuff on the shelves in the back of my mind for later, and then a lot of those shelves fell down when I was fifteen, but we’re not going to talk about that. 

We’re going to talk about the day I started pulling myself out from under all the thoughts that had fallen on me when my mind-shelves got knocked over, the day I started putting everything back where it belonged. A task I still have yet to finish. 

We’re going to talk about TIB, which stands for TIME IN A BOTTLE, which was the pride and joy of my writing journey because it was the first rough draft I ever finished, my first hint that I was (maybe, please maybe) going to be okay. It was a trilogy, at first, which I wrote in November (all three books) and then whittled down to one far more solid book over the next few months. I’m really proud of TIME IN A BOTTLE. It is still my favorite story that I have ever told, edited or unedited. Of course I love my current work in progress and my assorted rough drafts, but I do not love them in the way that I love TIB. 

Yes, I realize now that it was silly of me to treat that one manuscript like it was the pinnacle of my success. Looking back, I laugh at my younger self, so certain that TIB was going to be snatched up by agents and publishers and the general populace. (You may laugh too. It is amusing.) In my mind, I was certain that, in spelling all the words correctly, and in using good grammar, and in using proper punctuation, and in having incorporated feedback from other people, I had avoided all the pitfalls of an "unpublishable writer". I had followed the magic formula that would get me from point a (unpublished) to point b (New York Times bestseller). 

I do still think it’s a good book. However, I also now see that it was not perfect. I think it has a lot of potential, and I think that, when I revisit it someday, I will find that I know what to do to make it shine in the ways I couldn’t before. The thought of eventually sharing it with you makes me smile like a little girl, and I am not the kind of person who typically likes to share. 

TIME IN A BOTTLE did manage to get some agent interest. Not much. I got a bunch of nice, personalized rejection letters, as well as some form ones, as well as a rude one. I got two requests for the full manuscript, along with one request for the first fifty pages. Even after two years, I still have not heard back from one of the agents who asked for my full, but that is okay. I promise I’m not upset. 

From November 2014 to November 2015, I hurled myself into the querying trenches. I put myself out there. In the process of researching agents, I even struck up a conversation with Marissa Meyer, who told me she was proud of me for managing to even get agent interest at my age. Obviously this was massively encouraging, and it still gives me hope when I think about it. 

But by the time January 2016 rolled around, I had begun the slow process of erasing the lies I had been telling myself about certain things that I had not wanted to believe. At that point, I finally smartened up and stopped sending query letters. I had received almost forty rejection letters, and I was starting to take the hint. But I also wasn’t smart enough to let go and trunk the novel outright, because to me that felt like giving up on my entire writing career. (We’ll talk more about that in a bit.) So I kept feeding myself little nuggets of hope, just enough to keep me going. I kept checking my email, because there was still that little carrot dangling perpetually in front of me, that knowledge that one agent still had my full, that there was a chance she would read it and love it and want it. *cue confetti* Every time I opened my inbox, it was with a physical pain in my gut, because maybe that was the time I would get The Email. Or, maybe it was the time I would get The Last Rejection of Doom. 

For obvious reasons, I hope you realize how unhealthy this was. 

Then came the bitter pain cherry on top of the bitter pain ice cream sundae. Earlier this year, I got some rather harsh (although still helpful) feedback on DSS, and the last few shreds of my confidence as a writer drifted away. I felt embarrassed, like I had made a fool of myself by failing in every way that I could have possibly failed. There were other factors that contributed to my depression, but those were two of the three major ones. I’ll tell you about the third now, because I can finally laugh at how silly I was. 

As strange as it makes me sound, I legitimately forget that I am not ninety years old. I see myself as having lived so long, I keep half expecting myself to drift off in my sleep. So I carry around this sense of urgency, that I need to get my books published before old age takes me. I’m already elderly, and I’ve never once succeeded. (You may laugh.) I keep needing to remind myself that yes, I am an adult, but I am nineteen. Not ninety. 

Sadness has this way of making you old inside. And I have had so much sadness that I forget to be young. I have had more sadness than I will probably ever talk about on this blog, though I have shared plenty with you already. Please don’t think I’m complaining, merely explaining. I would not trade my life for a different one. 

But here’s the thing. I tried to console myself with something that wasn’t meant to be my source of comfort. I told myself, “All this will be okay, all this pain will have been worth it, if I can just get published this year.” I wanted so badly to be able to justify all the hurt inside me, so badly that I clung to that easy, clear-cut idea that God would do with me what he did with Job and bless me all over the place (which he has done, but not in the way that I asked to be blessed). 

And, you know, maybe that will be the point of all my suffering someday. I don’t know. Quite frankly, I’m not sure I will ever know. As cocky as it may sound, I do think that I will eventually get published, because I know that I will keep trying and trying, keep writing and writing, because I won’t be able to stop. There are stories in my head that need out, out, out. More importantly, there is so much pain in me that needs explaining. But I consoled myself with the false comfort that clearly God meant to get me published in 2015. That I was going to be able to become a paid full-time writer so I wouldn’t ever have to face my anxieties about getting jobs and spending time doing non-writing-related work. I wanted this sense of security as badly as a love-sick young woman wants a spouse. And gradually, almost without realizing it, I began to get angry at God, because couldn’t he see that I was suffering? Didn’t he know just exactly what I needed to get better? Why was he denying me the one thing that could make me happy? 

Make me happy. Give me the magic formula to make me happy. 

Make me happy, God. 

Make me happy, or I won’t love you anymore. 

I am ashamed of that attitude now, ashamed at how angry and unfair and unreasonable I was, ashamed at how ugly it made me on the inside, ashamed at how unhappy I chose to be. 

I don’t know if God was saying no, not ever, or if he was saying no, not now. All I know is that I was trying to tell him what to do, and, as usual, I was wrong about what was best for me. 

At the time, I thought I was ready to be published. I thought I was prepared. Looking back, I am grateful that I did not get TIME IN A BOTTLE published when I began querying. I do not regret writing it. Nor do I regret querying agents. I think it was a marvelous learning experience for me, and I have grown as a writer and as a person. Now, with the benefit of hindsight, I know that a disappointment that had seemed like it would be the end of the world to me did not turn out to be the end. Neither was it the beginning of something new and wonderful, as the cliche goes, I don’t think. But it certainly wasn’t the end, and that’s the important part. 

In the time that I have had to wait, I have lost confidence and then learned to push through and become confident again. I have suffered more anxiety than all the previous years of my life combined and then learned to fight it with everything I have. I have lost my sense of gratitude and then relearned how to find joy in counting my blessings instead of cursing God for not adding one more to the towering stack he has already given me. 

But I had to let go first. I had to do something I never wanted to do, never thought I could handle doing. I had to decide to put TIME IN A BOTTLE in the metaphorical trunk, lock it away, and switch gears back into the same old holding pattern I had hoped so desperately to escape. I had longed for an easy ride, a smooth path, one where I wouldn’t have to experience obstacles and learn through setbacks, one where life would hold my hand and stop hurting me. Just stop hurting me. 

It was doubly hard to let go and trunk the novel because I was (and still am) so behind schedule on DSS, so behind it’s not even funny. I had blithely told Marissa Meyer that I would be querying a new project in August. That was August 2015. It is August 2016 now, and I am not back in the querying trenches yet. Maybe in a few months, but still. 

That is another thing. I was so afraid to trunk my novel, because I was afraid to start the whole querying process all over again. To me, having to begin querying another book seemed like it would be the end, that I would lose myself and melt away like suds in dirty dish water. That I had one shot at success and happiness, and if I missed it, well then, I would die in my sleep of old age, and that trunking my first novel would be tantamount to throwing in the towel. 

I hold myself to such high standards, and I have to remind myself that I am young, that I am not a failure, that even if I have to work a part-time job to pay the bills for the next few years or decades, even if I don’t get published until I’m 62 or ever, it will still be okay. 

Say it with me, so I can hear it. 

It will be okay. I will be okay. 

Getting published is a wonderful goal, and it means more to me than many other things, but it is not God, and I should not worship it. Whether or not I get published is not the point. In my haste to mean something, I keep forgetting that. And I get so unhappy when I forget. I forget to be delighted for other writers when they succeed. I forget to enjoy the good things in life that aren’t writing-related. And I forget to be the person I am supposed to be. 

Getting published would bring me happiness, yes, but it would not make me happy. 

I don’t know if that distinction makes sense to you. It took me ages to figure out that the difference is between being offered something and choosing to take what is offered. 

So let me tell you something. If you don’t already, you might just come to understand the distinction when you go from crying about your disappointments to crying with joy because someone else has gotten their first big publishing success. And it will probably surprise you, if you are like me and don’t cry easily. 

I hadn’t realized that one of the most rewarding experiences for me would be almost sobbing out of happiness for someone I don’t even know in person, someone who’s book I have yet to read, someone whose life I have never lived. And I had not realized it would take embracing the trunk of doom to get there. 

Source

Well, that was long. I’m sorry, little coffee beans. If you managed to read this whole thing, you are my new hero. What are some things you've learned from disappointment?

Unsolicited Advice--Part Two: Spock

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.