Revision's still, deep waters

In the last two days, I've revised eleven chapters of the novel I wrote during last year's NaNoWriMo. Technically speaking, that puts me more than 20 percent of the way through Round 2, which is a lot better than, say, zero percent of the way, or even ten percent. It's important to celebrate these milestones.

I'm starting to get a little nervous, though, because I know the real work is up ahead. It sort of feels like digging around in the yard and not quite knowing where the water line is, just that it's there. One of these days soon, I'm going to reach a certain point in the story and all this force is going to be unleashed.

So far, the revisions mostly involve making all the verb tenses consistent, tightening up sloppy or redundant writing, and smacking the occasional passive voice into action. A lot of it has centered around changing the chapters I wrote from a third-person POV into first-person. (I'm sort of glad I have no idea whether I wrote more chapters in first or third person in Round 1.)

But I worry that I'm taking refuge in technicalities. When I revise my poetry, I tend to get in there with both hands and tear it apart, move words and lines around, pull lines out and write 10-line exercises based on them to get at what I really meant, reassemble the lines and stanzas in different orders - in short, I rip my heart out, play hacky-sack with it for a while, and then put it back in place better-than-new.

Since I've spent a lot more of my life on writing and revising poetry than I have on fiction, I feel a lot safer during the poetry process than I do right now. Don't get me wrong; I go through plenty dark nights of the soul when I'm revising my poems, but y'know, they're just so much shorter than a novel. There's that stage of revision, right before it all comes together, when the entire thing turns into a royal, absolute mess. Then, like pulling the right thread in a cats-cradle, somehow it all magically ties together in a neat, ordered, beautiful way.

When we're talking about a 62,000-word rough draft, though, that absolute mess starts sounding a whole lot messier. In my imagination, it takes on downright scary, Titanic proportions. I know there are plot holes lurking like icebergs, just waiting for me to run into them. I also know I'm going to have to add some word count at some point, for this to be the length of a proper novel, and so far all I'm doing is tightening up the words.

Of course, one of the keys to good writing is for every word to matter, so I don't stress as much about adding to the story. If it's there, it'll come out; if not, it'll just be a short book. Better to be short than to have a lot of useless blather. My hope is that filling in those gaping plot holes will add to the length, too.

I keep telling myself I can make this entire first round of revision about the technicalities, if I want to, and then go through and read it more for the storyline. I can just keep segmenting down the necessary aspects of revision until they're in more manageable pieces - poem-sized, if you will.

But I've never labored for too long under the delusion that I really have control over my writing. Isn't that why we write? The words demand we write them, and we serve as their channel as best we can. Here's hoping I lose some of this control soon, and the story takes over.

of miscellaneous mind

I've got an amalgam of thoughts jostling each other for space right now.

First, as I delve further into the writing Twitterverse, I keep coming across articles on common topics. One is what-you-should-be-Tweeting or how-to-be-a-successful-Twitter-writer or whatever. Here's my opinion:

Just be yourself.

It's a lot like writing; it's important to speak with your authentic voice. There seems to be a lot of advice to advance your personal brand and be professional and useful and whatever else people want you to be. Apparently people don't want to know what I'm making for dinner or that I'm entertained by my cat snoring. Those people would be well advised not to follow me.

Granted, I do think you should learn from the things that annoy you in others, and not do them yourself. Learn from the things you admire in others, and adapt them to your own strengths.
 I like to know both the professional and personal side of people I follow on Twitter; it's much like enjoying a well-developed character in a book. If you're only showing your professional side, you come across as pretty flat. Be a real person. There's only one of you. Tell me who you are.

Granted, I think a key to this is to try and have a sense of humor about it. Whether on Twitter or in real life, genuinely self-absorbed people are just boring. But random glimpses of others' quirks remind me of the notes struck by a really good poem, when I'm grateful to realize just how universal my individual perspective really is.

So, that's my little rant about "how to act on Twitter". In other news, while the rest of the writing world is launching into NaNoWriMo with all the frenzy that writing a novel in a month deserves, I'm throwing myself into NaNoEdMo rather like a dive into an icy pond. In other words, I'm editing the novel I wrote during last year's NaNo. I attempted the same project in May, and got through five chapters in two weeks. This morning, I got through those five chapters again, and yes, through chapter 6 as well. (Hooray! Progress!) Here's hoping that being unemployed will keep me swimming through the murky waters of revision.

Since I'm working on this project, a lot of the links posted by my tweeps are serving as helpful reminders on the craft of writing. I hope they help you too. The agent/publishing/marketing-related links will come later.

My sincere thanks for links and/or writing the actual articles: @inkyelbows, @megancrewe, @motjustes, @ElizabethSCraig, @Quotes4Writers, @AdviceToWriters, @benwhiting, @mystorywriter, @david_hewson, @WritersDigest, @brianklems, @jessicastrawser, @MFAConfidential, Jon Morrow and Stephanie Perkins.

Tips from a master of writing. From @MFAConfidential: Flannery O'Connor's take on the tenets of craft. http://ow.ly/15YolZ

From psych major and YA author @megancrewe: What makes a good story? http://j.mp/3gOhzY

From Elizabeth S. Craig's excellent blog: Different characters have different perceptions. http://short.to/v7hu

From crime writer Andrew Taylor: Getting the Plot Right. http://bit.ly/10vwGX

From Jon Morrow: No one but you is an authority on your writing. http://bit.ly/r3nK3

To become a better writer: Intense, focused practice. http://bit.ly/1NpapO

He's absolutely right about the Facebook/Twitter trap. From @david_hewson: Keeping your writing alive - even when you're not writing. http://ow.ly/x71i

From @brianklems: 4 Tips for Choosing the Right Word. http://ow.ly/xmw7

I'm not quite sure how I ended up on the following blog, but I enjoy the irony of her digressions as she talks about how important it is to stay focused on your plot. Irony aside, good tips on self-editing: 
  http://naturalartificial.blogspot.com/2009/10/scarf-weather-answers-part-eleven.html

Another take on Vonnegut's Seventh Rule

I was thrilled to be asked to guest post on www.fictionmatters.com:

I'm intrigued by the concept of Vonnegut’s Seventh Rule, which essentially is to write for one person rather than the whole world. I’ve never really considered writing for the whole world; instead, I find myself writing for my main character. After all, if I don’t tell his story, no one else will. And if I can tell the story to his satisfaction, I’m certain to end up happy with it as well.

(Side note: I’m rather enjoying the fact that Vonnegut would’ve hated that semicolon in the preceding paragraph.)

I think one’s instinctive audience is deeply intertwined with one’s creative process. Every (good) story I’ve written has started because a protagonist popped into my mind, in a sort of reverse-Athena-birthing, whispering urgently that they must tell me about this thing. Or I’ll get a sudden image of this person - who’s never occurred to me before - in the middle of an intriguing action, and realize I must know what happened next. Or maybe I do know what happened next, and before too, and realize that for his sake and mine, I must tell his story, now now now.

There are some great advantages to this approach, in my opinion. My protagonists become close friends of mine, because I take their stories seriously, and they know I’m listening. Writing for them helps me with characterization quite a lot, because they’re driving the story so much that all I have to do is pay attention, and a thousand tiny details come forth with relatively little effort.

It also helps me with developing other characters. Since the secondary characters are all there because they’re a part of the protagonist’s life, I tend to see them from the protag’s point of view. How they respond to the main character, and how he responds to them, helps me understand both people better. The drawback, not surprisingly, is that this can make my secondary characters a bit flat at times. But hey, that’s why we have revision, right? I’m a big believer in getting the first draft down on paper and worrying about making it great on the next go-round or twenty.

Another thing I love about this approach is that the inspiration is all wrapped up with it. Whatever inner emotion makes this character so urgent, so insistent that I tell their story, tends to be one of the main themes. Even better, since that passion is innately contained within their personality, I typically don’t have to put a lot of conscious thought into the character’s motivation. It seems natural that the protagonist’s motivation and the story’s overall themes are linked in a necessary - indeed, inextricable - way. Granted, I may not fully understand that motivation or the themes until I’m knee-deep in the story, but I just keep trusting my main character and in time, all is revealed.

Focusing on telling this specific character’s story to his satisfaction helps me to hone in on the plot, too, even if I can’t see all the way to the end when I first start jotting down the scenes and images that occur to me. If I start to get lost, or bogged down, I can turn to the protagonist and say, “Sorry, what were we talking about? I got a little distracted.” In a very real sense, the protagonist is like a guide leading me along an unfamiliar trail through the forest. It doesn’t feel like I’m making up his story; I’m listening to it, asking questions, and writing as fast as I can.

Peggy-O revisited

This morning I went back to my outline of Peggy-O and messed around with it a bit more. Honestly, I don't even feel a need to expand it anymore. It's pretty much a story already, albeit a very short one.

Peggy-O

A river of army, pouring down through the foothills along the dry, dusty road, weary men placing one foot in front of the other, following the twitching flanks of the horses through the hot, humid morning. A tall man at the front of the column, surveying the land.

A woman, pale and distant as the moon, her arms languid in the afternoon heat. A window, taller than she. A pause, a glance out; a glance up.

A ball to welcome the officers. Women arrayed in the same palette of colors as the houses lining the streets. The women whisper and bob and smile and dance. The officer crosses to the woman, escorted by her brother, who introduces them. The officer bows low over her hand. She says little; wonders if he can hear her heart thudding against her ribs.

“Margaret,” she replies, and her mouth curls up into the slightest smile. He asks her to dance. She’s afraid to look him in the eye; she has a hard time looking away again.

A walk along the creek. He holds a branch aside so she can pass through. She reminds him of a mourning dove. She might fly away at any moment. He takes her hand; she faces him, reluctant, not looking him in the eyes. His hand is callused; she has never felt such roughness. But he is so gentle. She looks up at his face. He kisses her.

Later that night, after dinner, her mother drops a hint. “Won’t it be nice when those military men move along,” she drawls casual, watching her daughter’s face like a hawk, but from the corners of her eyes. “So charming, but most of them don’t have a penny to their name.” Margaret rises, puts down her book with the excuse of a headache, goes to her room.

Only one candle lit in the room. She paces, pausing often in front of the open windows, looking out at the night sky over the city. A tap on the windowframe; she startles, then rushes over to open the window higher. He sits on the windowsill, removes his boots, lands light as a cat and bows. She smothers a laugh, glances towards the hall. They sit on the sill together, talking quietly, holding hands, late into the night. She lets him steal an occasional kiss.

“We’re moving on in two days,” he says. He asks her to marry him, his eyes intense but unafraid. She turns her face away, looks out over the city. She tells him she cannot, that her mother would be angry if she married a poor soldier. He turns her face toward him so he can see her eyes. “Peggy-O,” he pleads. She bites her lip, tries to blink back tears.

The next morning; she is calling on friends with her mother. They pass in the street. The captain bows; Margaret nods, can’t meet his eyes. They don’t speak.

That night, she again pleads a headache and goes to her room. She pushes up the window and sits on the sill, wrapping her arms around her knees and leaning her head against the windowframe. She hears quiet footsteps, and turns her head; he is coming. She puts her feet down, sits up straight, looks ahead. He walks up to her, doesn’t even sit down next to her. He just kneels at her feet.

He talks in a low, urgent voice, pleading the cause of love. She looks sad but resolute. He is holding both her hands in his. He cannot understand why she would forsake love for duty to her family. She gives him a sharp look. “Are you not a soldier?”

“I am more than a soldier,” he replies. He stands.

She stands, too. “I cannot marry you, William, though it may break my heart,” she says, her hand light on his cheek as the feathers of a bird. One last kiss. He leaves without another word.

An army cot, a thin, spare form under a ragged blanket. The sustained gasp of shallow breath. His fingers clench, lips mouth silent words.

Months later; another ball. A group of young officers chat with Margaret’s brother. He asks after William; they grow solemn. “Died on the march, just wasted away,” says one. “A bitter shame.”